The Gift
by JackFan2
Summary: Dean is whisked away on an urgent rescue mission, leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious gift and a bat-crazy horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all around bad for Dean. hurt!Dean
1. Chapter 1

This is a birthday fic was written for my good friend and cohort **Ophium **(adrenalineshots at LiveJournal)

I offered and here are the prompts she picked: **Powers!Dean, a horse and Sam to the rescue.** This fic is done and I'm hoping to post every day or two 'til it's all up here and at my LiveJournal (under same name: Jackfan2)

BETAED: **roqueclasique, ophium (here at ffnet) and mad_server.**

**SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission, leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious Gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.**

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~h~a~p~p~y~ * ~b~i~r~t~h~d~a~y~ * ~n~a~t~t~y~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

**.**

**PART 1: The Gift  
**.

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"No. Fucking. Way!"

Dean's frustrated voice echoed in the Minnesota forest, reverberating off the surrounding walls of sheer rock, thick foliage and evergreens. Birds screeched, wings flapped and the anxious scurrying land creatures, heard but unseen, completed the mass retreat of the wooded area.

One animal, however, stood unaffected: the four legged menace that Castiel called Shadow Dancer, or some pansy shit like that. Saddled and ready, the horse stood quiet and calm. Watching.

Just days before the Winchesters had arrived at the small town of Crested River Falls at Bobby's request. A friend of a friend, of a friend, had gone missing some months back and others since and before.

From what Bobby had been able to gather, over the last couple of months several campers and seasoned hikers had either disappeared or been found severely injured. Those 'lucky' enough to have lived through their ordeal were but a shell of their former selves, shock and fear having left them mad.

Survivors were actually a rare find, in fact. Most times recovered remains came in the form of the missing person's sun-bleached bones or mangled body, ravaged by time, elements and the area's natural scavengers.

Still early in their research, the boys strongly suspected the predator to be a wendigo but needed more information. Either way, it looked to be an accurate theory and it was – to their immense relief – a creature they were most adept at eradicating.

It was almost a relief. Compared to the shit they'd been dealt over the last several years, a skinny, knock-kneed, gap-toothed, long-legged cannibalistic freak would actually be a welcome change. A piece of cake.

Now, however, things had gotten… complicated; Castiel.

According to heavenly gossip, there was a family in need of help, some poor bastards that had decided to camp in the wrong place, at the wrong fucking time and, unlucky bastards that they were, had ended up being dragged off by the wendigo to the most remote place that any retarded dick could come up with.

Which meant that the only way to get to them was on horseback - or so Castiel had insisted.

Which meant riding on the back of a black _thing_ that Castiel had pulled out of God knows where. Oh, and because when Castiel had snatched him from the County Records office without warning, and without the decency to allow Dean time to pocket even so much as a toothpick, he'd be going in unarmed.

Ok, so there was Castiel's promised _gift_ that he'd assured him would work. But really, Dean had little faith in the things of either Hell _or_ Heaven these days.

At the present, however, Dean was more concerned about the black beast standing before him. Warily, he eyed the animal with disdain and distrust.

_Shadow Dancer? Huh..._ Dean scoffed mentally. There were other, more _appropriate_ names he could think of; like, Hell Spawn, Hell Raiser, Demon Spawn, Son of Satan – ok, so they were mostly variations on the same theme but all with the same point. Dean hated horses. 'Specially opinionated ones.

The fact that it just stood there, chewing lazily on some forest foliage, completely unimpressed with the hunter, earned it yet another strike, so far as Dean was concerned. Black eyes stared beneath long lashes and nothing in Dean's world that had black eyes was ever good. Its eyes stared holes into the hunter, like it was measuring him up.

Nope, Dean shook his head and crossed his arms. There was no way he was riding _that_. Determined to get his point across to the angel, he turned, jaw set, hands clenched into fists, and leveled Castiel with an icy glare, willing the angel to bend to get his drift.

Castiel nodded toward the horse, his face filled with something akin to adoration and awe. "Shadow Dancer is ready to go," he gestured.

Dean rolled his eyes. Angels just didn't _do_ subtle, it seemed.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" Dean barked, taking the direct approach.

The angel only canted his head, eyes scrunched. "Why do you insist on saying that?" He blinked a moment, "I do not… kid."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean muttered sarcastically. "Fine," he said louder, wanting to be heard, "'cause neither do I." Arms crossed to show he'd stand his ground. "There is no _way_ I'm riding that...that-" he leveled a finger at the horse, "thing."

"Horse," Castiel corrected. He missed completely the irate hunter's face. "Believe me, this is not something I wish to put on you."

"Then don't!" Dean shot back, but history told him it wouldn't be that easy. "Why don't you just," he gave a quick flap of his arms, "swoop in with some of your angel buddies and save the day? Why send me?"

"We have other battles and I am needed there." Castiel looked away, as if listening to a distant voice. "As it is, I have delayed too long. My brothers and sisters call."

"Riiiight," Dean nodded, his voice deceptively calm. His ire notched up and his voice grew steadily louder, "'cause one small family isn't worth the angels' _precious_ time."

Castiel flinched. Dean instantly regretted the tone but not the sentiment.

None of this made sense to him. When they'd arrived at the small town, Sam had gone to the library to research 'cause their computer'd been on the fritz (something about a virus – so computers got sick days? That seemed completely unfair), while Dean had taken the county records office.

One minute Dean'd been poring over the books, gathering information, studying his map, then Castiel had flapped in for a brief but heated argument and then one touched-by-an-angel moment later, here he was. The middle of some shit-forsaken forest and – dammit, when did it start getting colder out here?

"And you know, what's with this family anyway?" Dean looked curiously at Castiel. "What makes them so special, or not special, that the angels would want them saved?"

"Is it not enough that they are in need? That their very lives hang in the balance?"

Dean couldn't argue that one. "Ok then, just go get Sam and he and I –"

"As I said before," Castiel interrupted – it wasn't the first time Dean had lamented his brother's absence and the angel was getting testy on the subject – "since Sam was not present at my arrival, given how little time there is, I conveyed only you." Arms wide and sounding far too sarcastic for an angelic being, he added, "and here we stand when we should be moving."

Dean didn't think he could get any angrier but that 'we' got him by the short and curlies. It wasn't that he didn't get the point, he did; he was just tired of being pushed around, maneuvered and jimmied into place like a live piece on some gigantic, apocalyptic chess board.

"_We_?" Dean repeated icily. "Seriously? 'Cause last time I checked, I was doing this solo. Not only without backup, but without a fucking weapon."

"You will have use of the _gift_."

"Right, right, the gift…" Dean nodded. Curiosity flipped a gear in his brain and at the mention of the _gift_ he stared suspiciously at his hands. "Ya know, before I go charging to the rescue with my ass and my bare teeth hanging out, give me the skinny on this so called _gift_."

"The…" brow furrowed, Castiel asked, "…skinny?"

"You know." Dean rolled a hand. "The low down. The particulars. The 411."

Castiel shook his head in total bafflement.

"Cas," Dean sighed, "you guys have _got_ to get with the program. If you're gonna walk — er… fly, among us — you gotta learn the lingo."

"What…" the angel's face grew even more confused, "program do you—"

"Forget it!" Dean closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between two fingers. A headache, the after effects of the flu he'd just gotten over, had been building since late yesterday and growing worse since Castiel had arrived. "Just — tell me how long this… _gift_ is gonna last?"

"Not long, Dean; you must accomplish your goal quickly. As soon as the family is safe, and the creature—"

"Wendigo"

"—is dispensed."

"Killed."

Not only did angels not kid, but they obviously got a bit perturbed at being repeatedly corrected or cut off. Dean could swear he saw the angel roll his eyes heavenward, calling on some divine source of patience.

After a breath, Castiel continued, "— the _gift_ will have run its course."

Dean rolled the information around a bit. "Don't suppose you could, you know, make this _gift_-thingy last a bit longer?" he suggested hopefully. "Well, just 'til we stop Lilith an' all?"

"I am sorry," Castiel said, truly looked the part. "It is not mine to control in that way."

"Yeah, I guess I figured as much." Dean turned then stopped suddenly, and looked back at the angel. "You know, you never did tell me just how you came about this _gift_. I mean, you're not breaking some kind of angel code or something?"

Castiel canted his head to the side, his eyes studying and curious. "You…" a certainty quickly filled his gaze and Dean found it hard not to squirm. "You actually _care_ that I might get in trouble."

Face closed, the quick read of emotion gone, Dean covered, "Hey, it's my ass on the line here. I don't want to be up against it and have this _gift_ yanked out from under me all of a sudden, just 'cause you got reckless."

Castiel's face softened and one side of his mouth quirked slightly into a knowing smile. "I called in one of the very few favors I still have at my disposal. Do not worry. The _gift_ will not leave you before its time."

"Good," Dean nodded, tossing a reluctant eye at Demon Spawn as it returned the favor, "'cause, you know, Wendigos _do_ eat people and I've already been there. Done that. Bought the t-shirt."

Resigned to this fate, Dean turned to leave but stopped short.

The once calm horse was now tossing his head wildly, hooves pawing at the ground, black eyes rolling about their sockets. A mighty snort puffed out of flared nostrils, the chilled air giving it the appearance of smoke from hellfire.

In that moment, Dean quickly added horses to the list of 'Things Dean Hates', second only to camping, but somewhere between Ruby, Alastair, all demons, most angels and well, ok, it was a longer list than he realized.

Still, that list grew to include horses, especially the crazed horse he was expected to ride who eyed him with contempt and looked to want nothing more than to rip him apart. Limb from—

"Time is of the essence Dean," Castiel encouraged.

Dean jumped, wondering just how long he'd been standing there.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean flapped a hand over his shoulder, looked balefully at the horse and murmured, "My _essence_ is about to get its ass kicked. Literally."

The hunter got no more than a step closer when Demon Spawn shied away and whinnied what Dean was sure to be a mutually shared aversion to him riding.

The angel's voice prodded again. "Dean."

_That did it._ Spinning at Cas, arms wide, Dean practically shouted,"Really?" He waved angrily at the anxious animal. "Exactly how am I supposed to _make time_ if I can't get a foot into the…" he flapped a hand, "the… loop thingy?"

"Stirrup," Castiel corrected.

Dean's mouth slammed shut. Eyes narrowed suspiciously at the angel, he said, "Ok, I don't even want to _know_ how you know that."

The angel's only response was a steady gaze at the horse, almost like there was some unheard conversation. "Whatever," Dean sighed, figuring he was on his own.

Surprisingly enough, he got a foot into the _stirrup_ and swung a leg over. In direct response, the horse danced violently sideways, forcing Dean to clutch at its mane for dear life.

"Shit!" Dean went wide-eyed as Son of Satan continued to dance beneath him.

No help at all, Castiel spoke urgently: "Mason's Gorge is not far, maybe two hours if you hurry."

"I…" He grabbed one of the leather, strappy things that attached at Hell Spawn's mouth and pulled. Hard.

Horses, Dean soon realized, did not like their mouths jerked on, hard, or otherwise, or at least Hell Spawn certainly didn't. This was made painfully clear to him when the animal began to spin and jump, in one continuous unending motion. Spin, jump, turn, spin, jump, turn.

Foam issued terrifyingly from Hell Spawn's mouth as it snorted and flung its head. As the flecks of froth flew, Dean thought frantically that it would be just his luck to get the only rabid horse on this shitty, fucked up day.

Flailing, Dean held on for dear life. "I still don – ," he grappled for control, "don't understand why I gotta ride this – over-sized dog."

"Trust me Dean," Castiel said, staring intently at the animal. "This is the best way for you to reach the mine."

Dizzy and disoriented, Dean didn't immediately grasp the reason for the horse's sudden decreased activity. Once the constant spins, hops, and head tosses slowed, all he saw was a chance to regain much needed control.

So, with his limited knowledge of horses, he seized his chance. Gathering the leather straps, he tugged the other direction with a strong, heavy handed yank. Hell Spawn snorted and his tail swished angrily at the over-correction. Gaining speed once again, he moved to spin the other direction. As ordered.

Dean never heard Castiel's frustrated sigh.

"Oh you—" Dean gritted his teeth, trying to reply. "You I got no problem with – " Dean pulled again and Demon Spawn answered with a head toss. "Well, aside from the whole, 'think of it as the Impala with legs' thing," he mimicked. Demon Spawn started spinning faster. "Seriously, Cas... I'd rather w... walk."

"And be too late to save the lives of those in peril?"

Dean was at the end of his patience with the horse. Deciding on a firmer hand with the animal he yelled, "Dammit!" and began sawing on the reins, relentlessly. "STOPPIT!"

If the horse had been annoyed before, it was posi-fucking-lutely _livid_ now, as was evident in the sudden crow-hopping, head-turning, teeth-baring, rear legs flinging gestures it exhibited.

"Cas!" Dean grappled frantically for the hard leather knobby thing that jutted up from the saddle. With every sudden shift forward, his balls shrieked in pain. "Guilt trip later. Stop. Horse. Now!"

In his panic, Dean heard a faint flutter of wings then Castiel was in front of the horse, his eyes fixed on its tossing head. The angel raised one hand, palm out and the animal stilled – immediately. The angel then pressed his palm to the small patch of white fur on its forehead, held it there then dropped his hand.

The animal became all at once still, pliant and reserved. "He won't trouble you any longer," Castiel said as he helped gather the reins and adjusted them back in Dean's grip. Eyes brimming with excitement, he said, "Ride, Dean. Find that family."

What with the sudden extrication, Castiel's urgent mission and the appearance of the bat-shit horse, with his ass now sliding achingly in the saddle Dean realized he hadn't had the chance to ask the one question he'd been itching to ask. The one question that had been on the tip of his tongue before Bat-Shit Horse showed up.

"So, wait, why not just beam me up to the mine? Why a ho –"

Dean never got the chance to finish his question. The animal shot off like a rocket and Dean could do no more than grab at the pommel and hold on for dear life.

As the angel shrunk in the distance, Dean got the distinct impression, as he recalled the look on Castiel's face, that this had been just what the angel intended.

.

**~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~**

_._

Sam paced in front of the library, growing angrier by the minute. Dean was late. Very late.

Flipping open the phone, he dialed Dean's cell again. "_This is Dean Winchester—"_ Voicemail. Sam snapped the thing shut with a vehement epithet, looked in the direction of the city offices and got even angrier.

Well aware of his brother's effect on some women (though Dean would argue it was ALL women -- unless they happened to be gay, or into Sam, which was, in his book, the same thing), Sam had a pretty good idea as to what or, more accurately, who was indirectly responsible for his brothers' tardiness.

They'd arrived at Crested River Falls too early to check into their hotel, so with stomachs grumbling they had made their way to the local diner for breakfast. Over short stacks, sausages and eggs, the course of their conversation had turned to research assignments for the day when Dean's definition of 'hot' (which, by Sam's definition was pretty much any pretty female who reciprocated Dean's advances) had strode in.

Sam could swear he heard tendons and muscle snap when Dean did a strong double take. Their eyes locked as she moved to take a seat at the vacant table nearest them and Sam knew then that Dean's hot-chick-checking-me-out radar had been tripped and streaming live.

Sam had sighed. Dean cleared his throat.

In obvious discomfort resulting from the effect her exaggerated swaying hips and upper body parts as she approached, Dean shifted and lowered his head and just like that they seemed to be back on track. The effort, Sam knew, was nothing short of herculean on his brother's part.

The test was far from over, however. A scant three feet separated her table from theirs and Sam caught the clandestine glances and doe-eyed gazes throughout breakfast. Still, Dean had made a valiant effort to stay on task and Sam'd been obscenely proud of him for it.

Then, at Sam's mention of the city records department, things went immediately down hill.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the girl had practically done a double flip backwards, which was quite impressive given her seated position. When she eagerly leaned over to introduce herself, her over-indulgent breasts doing all the talking, Sam knew resistance was futile.

Sam had wondered then if he could possibly pull a muscle in his eyes for rolling them so much.

"I happen to work there…" Cindy/Sara/Shelly had purred, eyes melting in their sockets. Her introduction gave away, quite obviously, the fact that she'd been listening to at least some of their conversation.

In a momentary shot of panic, Sam had mentally reviewed everything they'd been saying to this point, scanning for weird content. There was, however, nothing to worry about because from the extreme amount of sugar that she exuded in her talk, there was no way that she thought them to be insane, or murderers, or both.

Then her giggle had cut into the bustle of the morning rush crowd, slicing at Sam's nerves and when he looked at the two of them, he wondered if he'd need an insulin shot after prolonged exposure.

"Well then, this must be my lucky day," Dean had supplied with an equal amount of syrup and eye twinkling.

Good god… Oh well, so much for staying on task, Sam had thought as he rolled his eyes. Again.

They'd giggled and talked so long, during which Sam had gotten so lost in his internal struggle between not throwing up, and leveling some understanding for his brother, you know, given his time spent in Hell and all, that Sam blinked in surprise when Dean stood and extended an elbow toward Sandy/Shelby/Sharon.

She giggled. Again. Then she stood and took his elbow, biting coyly at her lower lip. Oh sheesh.

Without taking his eyes off the girl, Dean spoke. "I'd be glad to give you a ride to work, if I may be so bold."

When had that happened?

The girl giggled. Again. Insulin please.

Amazingly enough, just before they left, Dean had actually looked at Sam. "You know, the library's not that far from here. I'll just give (whatever the hell her name was, 'cause by this time Sam was completely flabbergasted as to what was happening) a ride. Pick ya' up 'bout lunch time?" He gave Sam a manly pat on the shoulder. And winked.

Then they were leaving, exiting the diner, arm-in-arm, on a breeze of quiet murmurs and saccharin giggles.

It didn't usually bother Sam when this sort of thing happened. Having spent his entire life with a guy like Dean who was attracted to girls in general, never mind those who just happened to work at the Records Hall, it was to be expected. After all, she was just his type; female and available. Ok, so she happened to be pretty too…

"Dammit," Sam had muttered, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. Determined and pissed, he'd stormed down the sidewalk toward the city offices, a litany of curses running through his mind about hound-dog brothers with overactive libidos who'd just returned from Hell— and that last part brought Sam's thoughts skittering to a halt.

The reminder of where Dean had returned from, the memories that turned his dreams into nightmares, the haunted look in his eyes… yeah, Sam's anger lost some of its edge. Just a tad.

The bell rang jauntily, announcing his entrance. Sam really hated happy bells when his mood was anything but. Just didn't fit.

Before Sam could ask, Cindy/Sara/Shelly rounded the corner from a back office, eyes snapping, "YOU!"

Completely derailed San straightened, pointed at himself. "Me?"

"You tell that partner of yours thanks for leaving his mess here for me to clean up. And…" her voice lowered, more hurt than angry now, "and thanks for – nothing."

Nothing? Sam blinked in surprise – god he had to start paying better attention. They didn't…? "You mean you and my br— er... partner didn't…?"

Head down, she shook it sadly.

"Oh, I - I'm sorry…" Sam stuttered out, at a momentary loss for words. When she turned beet-red, he hurried to specify, "um, for the mess."

Stealing a quick glance at his phone, Sam's frowned; no missed message, no missed call. The concern meter notched up a bit. Where the hell was Dean? "Listen, I'll happily take care of the mess if you'll just show me where…"

Nodding sullenly, she led the way to a back room and opened the door. This was as good a way as any to get a look at whatever it was Dean had been working on. Maybe something there explained his sudden need to leave. As it was, Sam stood in the doorway, surveying the wreckage that was his brother's method to organized research.

Papers were scattered all over a table, books open and overturned everywhere, chairs tumbled to the side – ok, so the mess wasn't totally un-Dean-like. Given the way he flew into research, there wasn't much in the visual aftermath that gave Sam any indication of foul play.

Sam looked at Cindy/Sara/Sally. "Did he say _anything_ before you left him in here?"

When she turned bright red and Sam braced for the sordid details… "Nothing I'd tell you."

_Oh thank god…_"Of course," Sam said with some relief at her lack of detail. Though, more perplexed and uneasy than ever at the turn of events, he turned back to survey the scattered mess.

"But I'm confused," she continued, interrupting his quiet musing.

Busily perusing the pile of jumbled papers, Sam gave a distracted, "Oh?"

"I thought he _liked_ girls."

The randomness of that statement brought his full attention back to her. Eyeing her curiously he responded, "He does. A lot – a _whole_ lot."

"Okay," she sulked back, brow furrowed in thought. Eyes averted, she gazed around the room, anywhere but at Sam. "If you say so."

Sam studied her profile. The nervous way she didn't meet his gaze, coupled with her penchant for eavesdropping, led him to believe there was something she wasn't telling him. "What did you hear?" he prodded knowingly.

Stunned, she turned to stare at him, eyes wide. Sam pasted on his '_don't bullshit me_' face and the flood gates of truth opened up. "I just happened to be walking by the room and… I heard talking. There was another guy in here with him."

"Shit," Sam murmured, eyes wide. He spun back to the table and anxiously scanned the papers with a more inquisitive eye for the chaos around him.

"It was weird, you know, I… I could've sworn I heard wings flapping right before the other guy started talking."

"What?" Sam swung back. If the information wasn't jarring enough, the constant rubber necking was about to make him sick. "You heard wings?" She nodded. "Did you get a look at him? Was the guy wearing a trench coat?"

"I never saw him," she said, shaking her head. "Just heard him say, something about there being no time and then 'Dean, I need you now' then more wings and," she shrugged, "he - er... they were gone. And that doesn't make sense 'cause there's only one way in or out of this room and I was right by the door—"

Ok. Sam needed to put a stop to this right now, rumors of mysteriously disappearing strangers and wings flapping, 'cause next thing you knew there would be questions and cops and – it was the last thing they needed. "Sara—"

"Abby," she corrected, mightily put out.

That's good. Off balance was good… "Sorry. Um," he flapped an arm around the room, "I'm sorry about all this. Dean probably didn't mention what we do for a living…?"

"He said ya'll were some kind of investigators."

"Right." Good, Dean had kept it vague, Sam thought with relief. Sam could do vague on top of vague. "I'm not really supposed to tell anyone this, but… Dean's a ninja."

Abby blinked, her mouth opened in awe. "You mean like… in the movies?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. Could it be this easy? "Like in the movies."

"So the wing flapping thing…?"

Sam shook his head. "Just a smoke screen. Probably knew you were out here the entire time."

"Oh." Eyes sparkling, she smiled in wonderment. "Cool."

Sam now saw what Dean had seen in her – the smile, the sparkle in her eyes – and found himself exceedingly glad to see the dregs of missed opportunity leave her face. Even if that _missed opportunity_ had been a possible hook up with his older brother.

"Yeah," Sam said as he tried to look more official than he felt. "I'm sure this has something to do with the case we're working on—"

"Oh," she chimed in excitedly, "you mean the missing campers and hikers?" Dropping her voice she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "You think it's… murder?"

Taken aback, Sam asked hesitantly, "He told you about our case?"

The girl bit at her lower lip, eyes contrite. "Not exactly…" Sam quirked one brow questioningly. "Ok so, I sorta, kinda read his notes."

_Son of a …_Sam looked quickly at the stacks of pages on the table. "You—"

"I just saw one little note about it," she rushed to supply, eyes a little fearful. "Just the one that was on one of his pages when I brought him in another stack of books. That's all. Honest."

"Good." Sam looked at her, dead serious. "Because you could get in a lot of trouble for snooping into federal business you know."

"Don't worry, I won't say a thing, 'cause I don't actually know much."

Of that, Sam was very certain.

"So," Abby tapped on Sam's sleeve, "do you think it's a murder?" Once again, the sparkle of curiosity lit up her face and Sam finally witnessed what Dean saw in her. An innocence that neither of them had anymore. An innocence they both envied.

Still, they didn't need the rumor mill flying that there was a murder investigation going on in a small town where the local law would likely take exception to federal agents showing up and not announcing themselves right off. Better to squash that curiosity right now.

"Nah," Sam shook his head. "We're pretty sure it's just… bears." Her perplexed look prompted him to explain. "We don't exactly investigate cases involving humans. We're sort of like, feral animal investigators."

"Oh…" she deflated a bit, but there seemed no end to her questions. "So… the other guy who was here?"

"Probably one of our associates." God, this was taking forever. If there was anything in that scattered mess of papers that would tell him where Castiel had taken Dean, he needed start digging. Now! "Listen, Amanda—"

"Abby!"

"Sorry. Abby." Pasting on a patient smile that he didn't feel, Sam moved into her personal space and got the desired response; she backed away. Maneuvering her toward the exit, he continued, "Could I just get a moment here alone?" Then, he spun her 'round and pressed an insistent hand to the small of her back, and pushed lightly.

Abby looked over her shoulder, mouth opening and closing, but Sam added, "I gotta get a look at what my partner was working on, and it's, you know, private. Maybe it'll give me a clue as to what he was on to."

"But that doesn't make sense." At the door she rounded, clapped her hands to the frame, her intent to stay put evident. "If the man who came here was an associate, why didn't he…they come tell you or call you or something?"

"Yeah." Sam glanced back at the table, buying time to come up with something. Then he looked back at Abby. "That other associate? He's a bit of a rogue agent."

"There are," her eyes muddied in confusion, "rogue agents in the field of – animal investigation?"

"It's… complicated." Sam abruptly clasped her around the waist making her squeak in surprise and her arms drop. Eager figure out just what hand happened to Dean his patience was gone. The door frame out of her grasp, he set her outside in the hall and stepped back. "And I'm really not at liberty to discuss it."

Without another word, Sam shut the door in her face.

.

**~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~**

_.  
_  
Dean was completely and totally and utterly miserable.

A steady rain came down in frozen sheets, coating his head, his clothes, his hands, his legs. Shivering almost non-stop, he pulled his leather coat closer and pushed on through the forest.

"F-f-fucking a-an-angels." A litany of curses poured from between Dean's chattering teeth as the two moved on through the frigid surroundings. "F- fu-cking check th-the w-weather f-f-forecast?"

The horse whinnied and shook his mane furiously. Dean's already numb face was now coated with icy condensation. He slammed his eyes shut and ran a trembling hand down his face. "Fuck y-you too, h-h-horse."

They'd been no more than a half hour into their ride when, upon arrival at this particularly lush area of forest, the freezing rain had started to fall. The ground had become slick and treacherous and the horse had had to slow to avoid slipping. Now, it picked carefully through the undergrowth.

Trembling hands managed to pull the cell from his pocket. It was no less than he'd expected, the same he'd seen since Castiel had dropped him in this fuck-forsaken forest over an hour ago; no service.

"D-d-da-damn cell ph-phone." Dean snapped the useless thing closed, nearly dropping it in the process. Hands numb from cold, he only just managed to keep hold of it before stuffing it back into his pocket.

Dean dropped his head back and shouted, hoarsely, "Is it t-t-too much t-t-to ask for a l-little w-warmth?!" When heaven had nothing to say, he leveled his gaze in front of him again, struggling to clear his sore throat. "'S all I n-n-need's another f-f-fucking c-c-cold."

Dean's nose tickled and he lifted his hand just in time to level an almighty sneeze. Surprised, the horse slipped down a narrow ravine while startled birds flapped for cover. Once the horse righted itself and Dean's ears popped, he heard the residual echo of his exploding sinuses bounce off the tall rocky surrounding.

"Gross," Dean muttered, staring at the handful of snot. Rolling his eyes, he looked around for someplace to… _deposit_ the result of explosive sinuses. Low on options, he grimaced and wiped the goopy substance on his pants.

"'Think of it as the Impala with legs'," Dean mimicked in his best Castiel-like-voice. The more the angel's words played in his mind, the more freezing rain fell, the more stiffened and numb his fingers became, the more his ass complained over the hard surface of the saddle, the more he thought about Sam not being there...

Head back, top of his lungs he shouted, "WELL AT LEAST MY CAR HAS A FUCKING HEATER AND A ROOF!"

Dean winced and slammed his eyes shut_. Damn that had hurt._ Turned out yelling with a sore throat and a headache wasn't such a good idea.

Sullen and even more miserable, he hitched up the sides of his wet jacket and sank deep into the saddle, the horse's rocking gait somewhat soothing.

Having completely ignored his second outburst, the horse merely trotted out of the ravine and continued on their trek.

.

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_To be continued…_

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*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ H~a~p~p~y~ * ~B~i~r~t~h~d~a~y~ * ~N~a~t~t~y ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Ok. I know, I indulged and in-so-doing it got a little… cracky. Not intentionally and not a lot (I hope) but I got carried away, I'll admit to that. But damn that was fun. I totally amused myself. I mean, if Dean's gonna be in a fic with a horse, how can you NOT see that as an opportunity to have some fun…?

Poor Dean. Him and Satan's Spawn are just not going to work and play well together, I fear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beta'd by mad-server; I asked and she responded in huge ways. I sent her all 25,000 words+ of this finished story and she got it back to me in less than a week. Nothing short of amazing…**

**Written as a birthday gift for Natty (Ophium here at ffnet/Adrenalineshots at LJ) she asked for a fic with the following prompts: powers!Dean, a horse and Sam-to-the-rescue. This is part 2 of that result.**

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATTY! ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

**PART 2:** The Gift

Shocked, Frank Devlin, owner of Devlin's Drygoods, stared in open-mouthed amazement at Sam. In turn, Sam shifted anxiously under his gaze.

"Lemme get this straight," Devlin said pulling the toothpick he'd been rolling around in his mouth and pointing it at the taller Winchester. "You're goin' up to the Claypool mines. In this weather?"

Sam glanced outside the store window; frozen beads of rain pelted noisily against the glass. What had started as a light mist when he'd left the city records office was now coming down in solid sheets of ice. Dean was out there somewhere, tracking a wendigo or, worse, fighting it. Alone.

Dean's physical condition was also a concern to Sam. Only a week ago he'd come off the flu and still wasn't one hundred percent. No way being out in this weather could be good for him. He hadn't actually dressed for this – hell, neither of them had. This weather system had moved in from nowhere.

"Yes," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Now, can I please just get another copy of that map? I'm in hurry." The quaint, quirkiness of the local color had long since lost its appeal and Sam's patience was at an end.

The proprietor raised his brow leaving little doubt he expected more information but Sam didn't bite. He stared back, jaw clenched, unflinching in his resolve. Town's this small lived on gossip and he'd be damned if his life, and the life of his brother would become fodder for their idle chatter.

Practically sulking, Frank shrugged. "Suit yourself," he dismissed. Packing Sam's purchases into a paper bag he sent a pointed gaze over his specs to the Impala parked at the curb. "Makes no never-mind to me but you ain't getting there in that."

"What?" Sam's brow furrowed. Worried something had happened to the car in the short time since he'd arrived at the store, he glanced out the window – it was fine, just as he'd left it – then back at Frank. "Why?"

"Ain't no roads passable by car going up to that mine," the old storekeeper said as he pushed the fully loaded bag toward Sam and placed the receipt and change on the counter next to it. "Leastways, none on the map."

The bag of purchased items and change sat on the counter, untouched as Sam worked through this newest information. "Then how –?" he asked, arms spread.

"Well," Devlin gestured with the toothpick, "a skilled rider, one who knows the area, can make it up there on horseback. Or, you could hike up, but either way, I'm talking 'bout good weather."

"But –" Sam sputtered, "either of those could take hours!"

Devlin shrugged again – Sam was really beginning to hate that shrug. "The Claypools have been closed going on twenty years. All that's left of the roads now are some narrow trails, lots of rocks, trees and gullies. Ain't nothin' you could drive up."

Sam swallowed. "And horseback is the fastest way up?"

Frank affirmed with a nod. "One hell of a hard ride, but yeah."

_Horseback_, Sam thought as he picked up the bag and tucked it under one arm. The last time he and Dean had ridden, out of necessity of course, had been on a job up in Wyoming. They'd been teenagers and the terrain had been relatively flat, open ground. Widow's Peak was anything but that.

They'd come away from that hunt relatively unscathed, except for the saddle sores. After spending hours jostled and bounced on the hard, unforgiving surfaces, neither brother had been able to sit without a pillow under their asses for a week.

Still, with few options at this point, Sam set his chin and looked Devlin square in the eye. "Any idea where I can get a horse?"

Devlin grinned almost piously. He grabbed yet another copy of the map, unfolded it and pointed. "Willow Creek Ranch. Ask for Pete Phillips, the ranch foreman, he'll rent you a horse and tack, a guide too if you're of a need. Ranch is about an hour and a-half, though in this weather, more like two and a-half hour drive. Mind the roads; they'll be slick."

"Thanks," Sam nodded. Then, without further comment he scrambled out into the cool air. Moments later he was on the way out of town, feeling the tires not quite grip the road.

The roar of the engine was a perfect match with Sam's mood. Angry. Worried. Scared. His death grip on the steering wheel, tense shoulders and white knuckles all echoed his conflicting emotions.

The contents of the note he'd found in the research room at the records office played over and over in his mind. The handwriting was unmistakably Dean's and the scrap of paper had been left atop the mess of papers, undoubtedly written in haste, before Castiel had yanked him away.

Clearly, it read: _Wendigo. Widow's Peak. Claypool Mine._

There'd been no why's, how's, or come-and-meet-me's, just those five words that, for all the information they provided, might as well have been one of dad's cryptic coordinates messages. Sam felt all of nine years old again, left behind while the 'adults' dealt with 'stuff'.

Each discovery had shifted Sam's anger, ricocheting wildly from Dean's overactive libido, to a small town full of nosey, busy bodies, to hill with no easy access and finally, landing squarely on overly pushy angels and their self-important notions.

What right did the angels, or more specifically, _trench coat_-wearing angles, have to think that their agendas were at all times more important than anything else?

More than anything Sam was completely baffled by this move on Castiel's part. Short of Sam, he more than anyone knew the tenuous nature of Dean's state of mind; he'd come back less than he had been before. All pieces and parts. All uncertainty and indecision.

Dean alone against a wendigo? Hell, Dean alone against _anything_ nowadays wasn't a good idea. Yes, Sam would definitely have words with the angel when this was all over, when Dean was safe and sound, when the wendigo, or whatever, was dead.

Sam glanced up at the dark shadow of Widow's Peak where it lay ahead of him. Impressive enough in size to cut through the din of low-hanging, weather heavy clouds, Sam realized just how daunting his quest was. It would take forever by horseback and the thought did nothing to quell his mounting trepidation and frustration.

Dropping his head, he glared at the road and punched the accelerator. The Impala lurched, fishtailed a bit, then pushed forcefully ahead. The treacherous roads would not be denied and nearly two hours later, he arrived at the Willow Creek ranch.

~ * ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ * ~

In a hail of rattling brush and shouted epithets, somewhere about halfway up the _no-fucking-way-it's-a-_hill, horse and rider burst through thick underbrush and tree cover to a small clearing. Dean nearly went ass-over-tea-kettle when the animal came to an abrupt stop.

Breathing hard, eyes wide, Dean blinking owlishly at the surroundings.

"Tired, huh?" he asked the horse, listening to his own lungs wheeze fretfully. "Ok. Take… five." He finished with an attempt to pat the animal's neck. But even that simple effort eluded him as his aim strayed and the hand ended up flapping ineffectively into empty air. "I'll just… just wait. Here."

Without warning a wave of dizziness washed over him and he slammed his eyes shut. Grappling to maintain his tenuous balance in the saddle, he reached out for anything that might steady him and abort what was looking like a headfirst fall to the ground. When he opened his eyes he found fists full of horse's mane wrapped tightly in his fingers.

Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was the sudden stop, or the fact that he felt like crap and it was really hard to breathe. In any case, he wasn't going to move any time real soon.

"This…sucks… out loud…" he breathed, wincing at the knifelike pain in his throat. When the darkness spun and churned behind his closed eyes, his stomach flip flopped. "Ugh, hate you _so_ much Cas."

After a moment Dean felt somewhat steadier and risked another upward glance, and even went so far as to straighten. It was more hunched than he'd have liked but at least it was a start.

It was then that he realized that he was no longer shivering. Dean smiled in relief, because it was about goddamn time that something good came from that vertical ascent and ensuing terror; the combination seemed to have driven off all thoughts of the cold.

Something wet dripped into his eyes and, certain it was blood, he reached up to swipe at it. What he got back was not quite blood but a mixture; sweat and blood. "Huh," he huffed, then wiped more wetness that trickled down his nose.

This substance we thicker, and he examined his hand again. Snot. "Eh," he blinked wearily at the substance. Much farther from caring than he had been hours ago, he wiped it on his torn and ripped jeans without a second thought.

Mind mired in misery, he thought a moment; _sweating, but not shivering?_ Something sluggishly warned him this was not a good thing, but he couldn't think for the life of him what that was. Then he started coughing.

When he finally stopped, and caught his breath, he looked around and wondered a bit dazedly why they still hadn't moved. Other than a few less trees and rocks, and some slightly level ground, nothing here looked any different from the rest of this damn hill –

"Hill my ass," he rasped, breaths coming out in rapid puffs. The coughing started again, this time worse than before.

When that finally subsided, he let loose several explosive sneezes. Each one echoed off the surrounding rock and sheer walls and just when he thought they'd never end, they did.

"Ugh…" he groaned, lowering his throbbing head to rest on the horse's mane while he struggled to catch his breath. "Son of a – " More coughing interrupted him.

Each rattled, ragged, wet cough made his head throb harder. If he didn't stop coughing soon he felt quite certain it would detach, roll off his shoulders and tumble back down the way he'd just come. And wouldn't that be a fitting end to a fittingly-fucked up day?

It did stop and he sat there, focusing on the pain. He hurt. Every damn inch of him. It hurt to think, to blink, to breathe, to sit... god only knew the agony that awaited him when he tried to stand.

Of course, even a brief respite, a moment to wallow in self pity didn't last long – the horse shifted restlessly beneath him. Even this stupid animal was telling him to get his ass in gear.

"Oh, c'mon," Dean complained, the air in his chest sawing nosily through his taxed lungs. "Just gimme a goddamn minute will ya?" Even as the words left his mouth, Dean braced for some sort of equestrian retribution.

When it didn't come, Dean peeked down suspiciously at what _appeared_ to be a rather calm, complacent, disinterested horse. But Dean knew better.

It had to be a trick. Since that little angel-to-horse-mind-meld Castiel had delivered earlier, the animal had seemed driven with some kind of autopilot, complete with GPS knowledge of where it was going, and how it would get there. Rider be damned.

Worst of all, Dean suspected Castiel had given the horse some kind of Narnia-like-power, like those stupid animals in that _Witch in a Closet_ book Sam liked when he was a kid.

During the long, painful ride, Dean, with good reason – well, reason enough for him, anyway – had been less than kind and more than a little verbal in his emotional display. There'd been disparaging remarks about its bastard bloodline, knock-knees, choppy ride to its dull, ratty coat, complete with mange and flees.

Dean could almost smile at the thought. Almost.

The horse, Dean later realized, seemed to possess an almost sentient understanding of every slanderous remark. And, he seemed to take it quite personally.

It wasn't, however, until Dean's vehement, heart-felt guarantee of a painful castration followed by a promised, celebratory bullet to the brain, that Demon Spawn's understanding became apparent. And deadly.

Dean had missed the smaller, earlier warnings to shut the fuck up. The close brushes near trees and tall shrubs apparently weren't enough. However, when he threatened to deliver Hell's Offspring to the nearest glue factory, that was the final straw.

In a vicious act, purely premeditated and retaliatory, one that promised pain, the horse took immediate action. Head down, it began charging straight at thick, low hanging, trunk-like branches.

The branches whipped at him, one right after another. Tearing, thrashing, pounding, pulling at his head, arms, legs, chest. There was never any chance to catch his breath; every harrowing moment was spent dodging those he could, but the onslaught was too much.

Assessing the damage, he saw it was mostly just cuts and abrasions, the worst being two deep, good sized was on his upper thigh – damn thing would probably need stitches – and the other began at his left ear and ended mid forehead, at his hairline. Whether from cold or the lack of any serious depth, both had stopped bleeding, but he could feel the sticky blood coagulating under his jeans and over one side of his face.

Then there was the deep, abiding muscle pain. Dean had been tossed into enough trees, headstones and walls to know what he'd find later; a myriad of colorful bruises all about the rest of his upper body and arms.

God, what was Cas thinking giving him some sentient beast to ride? During the long arduous trek upward, the damn thing had taken every opportunity to pummel him against any low hanging tree, bush or shrub it could find.

It wasn't necessarily Dean's fault that he didn't like horse's, nor was it his fault that he couldn't shut up about it. Thinking back, though, to the earlier stages of their trip, all the tell-tale signs to keep his big mouth shut, had been there.

Early on, not long after they'd left Castiel, and arrived at the foot of the _definitely-not-a-_hill and the first landmark the angel had called Mason's Gorge.

Drawing close enough to get a good look, Dean's eyes had widened in fear. "Shit!" He'd sawed furiously at the reins, but to no avail.

The horse, heedless of any danger, had continued, thundering headlong toward the enormous, gaping hole.

For a split second Dean had considered diving off, but the speed at which the ground rushed by gave him pause. Instead he redoubled his efforts.

"Hey!" he shouted. "I said stop goddammit!" and yanked the reins with all his might.

Finally, Bat-shit had planted his back legs into the dirt and brought them to a sliding halt.

"The fuck!" Dean shouted furiously. "You deaf as well as dumb?" When his racing heart had calmed enough, he leaned forward to get a better look at the opening in the ground.

Mason's Gorge, as it turned out, was actually a massive crater - the very one Bat-shit horse had nearly run right into - and it was huge. "Son of a…"

Angels, Dean decided, weren't worth shit when it came to details. Just like the details of the _Gift_, Cas seemed to have omitted such facts as... oh, the gorge being roughly the width of the Grand-_fucking_-Canyon.

Dean leaned over and studied the walls of the gorge, hoping for a way down and back out the other side. It was a sheer drop on this side and a more than sheer climb on the other, not to mention the appearance of less than stable loose dirt and gravel that would offer too little purchase for the horse's hooves.

"Ok. Definitely not happening," Dean muttered and sat back in the saddle.

While Satan's Spawn danced eagerly beneath him, Dean, still thinking that he could exhibit any sort of control over the horse, had just turned his head to scan the area for an alternate route when Demon Spawn took matters into his own… hooves.

The horse began to back up.

Confused, Dean had looked around. "Hey, what…" It was moving them away from the edge. While on the one hand this appeared to be a good thing, Dean had a bad feeling about this. "What're you doing?"

After another yard or two it stopped; the gorge maybe ten yards ahead.

"Okay, so, we're going to think this over…" he'd said nervously. That sick feeling of terror exploded in his heart when he felt the muscles of the horse's back legs bunch and coil. "Oh… no, no, no," the lack of control was horrifying. "What're you doing?"

Without hesitation – and without any sort of consent or encouragement from its rider – the animal had simply shot forward.

The bat-shit animal had actually jumped the gorge and Dean, hanging on for dear life, had nearly bounced out of the saddle when they'd landed on the inclined terrain.

Now, having come to a stop he felt beaten. For the first time in what felt like hours, Dean sat, unwilling – or unable – to move. He was beaten and exhausted. When he tried for a deeper breath, coughs wracked his entire body as little bits of rock hard ice bounced off his jacket.

Fear of more pain kept him glued to the saddle because getting down, after having spent so long with his entire body tensed and every muscle fighting to stay attached to the saddle was going to be a bitch. Bat-shit horse, however, seemed to be growing more impatient; he stomped one foot anxiously in the ground and snorted.

"Fine, fine," Dean grumbled gravely. "Geez, bossy much?"

Taking a deep breath, Dean made an attempt to straighten. And regretted it instantly.

"Guh." he froze. Razor-like agony shot up his spine, radiating through every nerve ending and snaking outward. It was everywhere; his arms, legs and up through his neck to his head.

Then, a sudden, tremulous chill shot up his back, leaving his body jerking in a staccato and shuddering motion. The unrelenting shivering missing moments ago, whether from elevated core body temperature or adrenaline rush, was back now.

"Aw, c'mon," Dean whined. The tremors pushed his already taut and sore muscles further into the shit-storm that still raged up his back.

According to the map – the same map that confused hills with mountains – this was where the mine tunnel was, or _should_ be because to his observant eye, there was nothing but a bunch of fucking overgrowth, trees, rocks… and more overgrowth, trees and rocks.

When it became apparent that the only way to get a better look would be on foot, Dean groaned. Dismounting, he surmised as he wiggled feet he could no longer feel, would be a bitch.

"Dammit," he snapped. Bat-shit seemed to think that was his cue and lurched forward.

"Hey." Dean fumbled numb fingers to gather up the reins. "I know you're p-pissed and all – I get that but…" Bat-shit went only a few yards then stopped at a tall clump of rock, tree and brush standing directly ahead.

Dean gazed at it, and then looked around. Arms out, he shouted at the horse, "What?!" He let them slap to his thighs in frustration. Bat-shit shook his head several times then moved closer to the large clump of debris.

"Hey!" Dean tried to steer it but to no avail. "Listen, I don't – " The horse spun, nearly unseating his rider yet again.

"Cut it out!" Dean shouted uselessly. Before he could contemplate bailing from the saddle, he felt the muscles in the animal's hind legs bunch. "Ah hell," he moaned and grabbed onto the knob at the base of the saddle.

Bat-shit suddenly tipped forward, its back legs shot out and collided with the large mass. Dean felt it and grunted. The impact sent small and medium sized rocks rolling from the mound, and Bat-shit spun again to face the aftermath.

That hadn't been as bad as he'd feared and he watched as several rocks dislodged and rolled free, followed by more. Soon, enough debris had fallen and Dean could just make out an aged wooden sign. On it, the words _Claypool Mining Co_ were clearly distinguishable.

Sitting back in the saddle, Dean stared. "Well, I'll be d–" a series of rapid-fire sneezes ended the sentence.

When he was done, Dean brushed at the sweat trickling into his eyes, sucked in the loosened snot, then swallowed. "I wonder if Batman had days like these," he groused.

Rubbing at his pounding temple, he eyed the entrance to the cave behind the brush and sighed. "Well," he shifted his weight forward to dismount, "let's get this shit over with."

It took a great deal of effort to lift his leg over the rump of the horse. The pain it ignited left him holding his breath and gritting his teeth. Before his feet hit the ground, too late Dean wondered if he might be incapable of standing.

"Dammit." Cold-numbed feet refused to support him and he clutched the saddle for dear life. To his credit, Satan's Spawn held absolutely still.

Dean grimaced as he reached down and rubbed at his legs, anxious to restore blood flow, get feeling back in his lower extremities and get moving. It wasn't long before he wished he'd not been so anxious.

Pins and needles. The relentless electrical current of agony flooded his feet and calves. Dean gritted his teeth, stomped his feet, anything to get this over with. The First step he took – his first step in two hours – he crumpled to his hands and knees.

"Mother – " Dean pounded a frustrated fist into the ground, "fucker!"

The horse came up behind Dean and nudged the hunter with his nose, and Dean flipped over. Bat shit now stood beside him, patiently, the foot thingy – what Castiel called a stirrup? – dangled loosely before him.

Dean glared up at the animal. "You're not forgiven you know." He looped a hand into the stirrup and used it to pull himself up. This time, when he got to his feet he locked his legs and stood, albeit unsteadily. After several hesitant steps he was moving forward, eyes surveying the area.

"Still hate you, fucking horse," Dean murmured angrily. In response, Bat-shit tossed his head indignantly and stomped the ground.

"Yeah, well."Dean tossed his own head, mimicking the animal – he stopped short of stomping because he was pretty sure the movement would fell him like a tree – "screw you and the horse you rode in on."

"Ha," Dean shouted triumphantly over his own joke. "Still g-got it Winches-ster…" A vicious twang shot up his back, the sensation not unlike a hot knife lancing his spinal cord and he froze. "Dammit." He clutched at the muscles, arched his back and groaned. "Gettin' too old for this shit.

Bat-shit's kick had been enough to knock a few rocks free, but giant clumps of brush, large limbs and enormous rocks still blocked the tunnel entrance. Faced now with the daunting task of what looked like hours of backbreaking work to access the mine, Dean sighed.

"Maaaan," Dean whined in a rare moment of self-pity. "Really Cas?" he questioned the absent angel.

A shrill whinny cut the frigid air. Dean could swear the thing was telling him to get a move-on.

"Nobody asked you!" he shouted angrily at the horse.

Hands bracing his aching back, he walked stiff legged toward the cave, back aching, arms throbbing, feet still crawling with remnants of pins and needles the entire way. All the while he cursed horses, mountains, maps, forests, wendigos, gifts, angels and… anything else he could think of.

This time, when the horse whinnied, Dean swore it was laughing at him.

Angry now, Dean turned and fixed his gaze on the animal. "You know," he ground out angrily and patted his empty pocket. "It's a really bad idea to laugh at the one guy who hates your guts and just happens to have a loaded .45 in his pocket!"

In response, the horse lowered its head and began chomping casually at the grass.

"Yeah," Dean coughed into his fist, not at all ready to accept how insane he sounded having bluffed a horse. Taking a breath to deliver a triumphant '_Take that_' he was cut off by a series of harsh, deep-chestedcoughs.

Dean doubled over and wheezed, "Put the," he choked on a series of coughs then, "fear of Winchester into… ya." When this forceful bout of choking coughs left him breathless and his eyes brimming with tears, he relented the argument, waiving at the horse. "Ah forget it…"

After what felt like several minutes, the coughing subsided enough for himto move. Straightening, he turned and continued his sore jointed trek into the old mining tunnel, promising some serious angel beat-down for this crappy day.

Much as he wanted to drag his feet just to piss the angel off, fear for that family, and anyone else he might find alive, or dead, drove him faster. In less than thirty minutes the entrance was cleared enough and Dean scrambled inside.

Flashlight in hand, he moved forward quickly and cautiously, adrenaline pushing aside any lingering soreness. Even with the _gift, _and all the vague assurances it offered, Dean felt his palms sweat in anticipation of his run-in with the creature.

Dean stopped and stared at the palm of his left hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how sweaty palms would affect the use of the _gift _so as he moved along, he constantly alternated his hold on the light to dry his palms on his jeans. There was no point in risking the damn thing backfiring on his ass.

As a seasoned hunter, Dean knew instinct and training were far better than anything his eyes and ears could reveal. So, he forced his breathing to slow so as not to interfere with his hearing and allowed his sight to slide out of the flashlight beamto search the shadows beyond.

Still, as he neared each turn or bend, he couldn't help but will the beam of light to bend the corner, allow him greater knowledge of the things he couldn't see or sense. Why couldn't the damn angels have given him a wendigo detector or something? That would've been handy.

The deeper he got into the cave, the darker it became. The word 'absolute' took on a whole new meaning. With nothing more than his smaller mag-lite, Dean was ill prepared for, well anything.

That wasn't exactly true, he thought, there was always the very ambiguous _gift_. A weapon of which he had very little clue as to how it even worked…

"… _As soon as the family is safe, and the creature—dispensed…" _Castiel's words filtered into his thoughts.

"Dammit," Dean murmured, moving quiet and quick, eyes large and searching. "Now I got angels insta-replay in my head?"

Dean took the angel's words to mean that he had to be in the immediate presence of the wendigo for the _gift_ to work. Years of hunting told him that this was a bad idea all around; taking an untested 'weapon' in a dark environment, against one of the quickest creatures on earth…

"Fuck."

To be continued….

~ * ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ * ~

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

This fic is complete. I got the full doc back yesterday from my beta and if all goes according to plan, I'll post each part as I finish editing the beta'd bits. Next part should be up within a day or two, and again every 24-48 hours 'til I get it's all up.


	3. Chapter 3

Beta'd by the wonderful **mad_server**, and pre-post approved by the birthday girl, **ophium **(Natty). Any mistakes now, I will own up to. Point them out and I'll fix them asap.

This fic was/is a birthday present for **ophium **because she just rocks in so many ways. I'm blessed to have made some pretty cool friends in each of the two fandoms I've hung out in. Natty's friendship has been a balm when life has chaffed so you've never read one of her fics and you like hurt!Dean, caring Sam, check out her work – Ophium here at ffnet, or if you'd like to see the amazing artwork she creates to accompany her fics, look her up at LiveJournal under "Adrenalineshots". She even made a fantastic banner for this fic on my LiveJournal under my same name here. .

.

**~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~**

.

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**PART 3**

Sam supposed he should be impressed; the Willow Creek ranch was beautiful. Nestled in a valley, it was surrounded by mountains, rolling hills and trees, and there was even an actual creek that cut through, lined with Willow Trees.

Sam would have been impressed, but he was consumed with worry. The clock was ticking and he needed to get to Dean. Now.

Arriving at the entrance to the ranch he'd met a half dozen hands, the lead had introduced himself as Tom Pritcher. Sam stated his business and Tom had quickly agreed to take him to meet with the ranch owner, Hank Culver, though he'd have to leave the Impala behind in favor of the four-wheel drive Jeep. The roads, he'd explained, were muddy and the Impala would never make the hour drive.

"Hour?" Sam choked in disbelief.

"Yup," Pritcher said, practically beaming. "Mr. and Mrs. Culver like their privacy. Ease up; it's only about a fifty mile drive."

Sam felt his shoulders droop but he followed Tom to the Jeep. This day – in Dean's words –sucked out loud.

On the veranda of the main house, Sam now stood, working to calm the feeling that something wasn't quite right. That is, with Hank, because he already knew things were going to shit where Dean was concerned.

Having poured out his heart to Hank Culver, he'd made his plea and it had all _seemed_ to go well. While a hard one to read, the ranch owner had said he'd make some arrangements, and then had disappeared. So, what the Hell was taking so long?

Sam watched the sky anxiously. The weather was worsening and already the freezing rain from earlier was changing to a light snow.

The sound of boots thumping against the wooden planks of the porch announced his hosts return. Sam turned and watched as Hank came up to stand beside him, holding out a steaming mug of coffee.

"Thanks," Sam nodded taking the proffered cup. Heat collided with cold as steam billowed from the open mug. After a tentative first sip, he took another, allowing it to warm him inside.

"Uh huh," Hank Culver said affably, but with an edge of doubt.

Sam gritted his teeth. That was probably the fiftieth 'uh huh' the grizzled old coot – er – cowboy had uttered since he'd arrived. Nope. Make that fifty-first, and it was starting to rankle.

Hank Culver, Sam guessed, was somewhere in his early sixties, though his movements belayed that assessment. The older man possessed a kind of grace and fluidity of movement, a testament to how well this life had agreed with him.

In addition to the nearly constant, condescending 'uh-huh's', Sam fell prey to found his constant, clear, freakishly still, searching gaze, disconcerting. Deep blue eyes set within kind but weathered features, stared holes in him.

Sam was worried. Hank was pleasant enough and seemingly sympathetic to his plight yet, there was just something this side of untrusting in the way the old guy stared and talked, or didn't talk, to Sam.

Taking a moment, Sam lowered his eyes back to his cup of coffee, mentally recounting the story he'd told, the one he'd practiced on the drive up; to the last detail it was sound. In fact it was SWS – Sam Winchester Solid – as usual.

The delivery was theatrical perfection, conveyed with all sincerity and dewy eyed concern. Hank had listened too, though his blue eyes had seemed to look right through him, not suspicious exactly, just…wary – but friendly, of course.

Mostly, however, it was his constant stare. It was unnerving. It had never wavered since he'd arrived. It was all Sam could do not to squirm under the knowing, weathered gaze.

"How much longer?" Sam asked, a bit distracted. His worried gaze kept straying back to the ominous mound to which the map referred as Widow's Peak. _Hill?_

"Be ready directly," the ranch owner said, curt and to the point, just as he had been since Sam'd arrived.

Sam nodded in response. Anxious as he was to get moving, without Castiel's angelic powers, he needed the mount and guide he'd brokered to get to Dean, so he tamped down his frustration and called on every ounce of patience he could to keep from snapping.

Trying to break the silence Sam offered, "I really appreciate this."

"So," the old wrangler said, brushing off Sam's attempt at thanking him. "About your brother…" It was as much a question as a statement, encouraging Sam to continue.

"Yeah, he… like I said, one of the missing hikers from over a month back, Dean and her," Sam pretended to choke up. "They had a thing. He was distraught over her not being found."

"Uh huh."

Sam's eyes slammed shut. Swearing mentally, he fought to keep the lines around them sad rather than pissed, and counted backwards from twenty.

"Mind if I see that map you got?"

"No, not at all." Sam fished the folded paper out of his pocket and handed it over. He watched as the old man unfolded and examined the lines and markings. Silently.

"Where'd you get this?" the old man asked, his eyes not leaving the paper.

"Um…" Sam struggled to remember the name of the store, curious as to why this mattered. "Store in town. I'm afraid I don't recall—"

"Devlin's," another cowboy supplied. Sam had been too busy trying to maintain his temper and frustration to hear the man approach.

"This here's Pete," Hank said by way of introduction. "He's my right hand man, my foreman." Pete didn't offer his hand, only crossed his arms over his chest, a clear sign of his distrust. Sam decided to ignore him as best as he could.

"Devlin's, yeah," Sam nodded in affirmation to the earlier question. "That sounds right."

Silence ensued and Sam looked at the two men. The map was now unfolded and they stared at it, murmuring words he couldn't hear and pointing at some of the markings.

Sam swallowed his irritation, and asked, "What's going on?"

Pete huffed, "That darn fool never does rotate his stock." He squinted at Sam's backpack. "You didn't happen to buy any of his canned chicken and dumplings,did ya?"

"No…" Sam answered. Just what the hell any of this had to do with him or his brother… If someone didn't get to the point, and soon, he was going to lose his cool, he could feel it.

Grinning annoyingly, Pete explained, "Just this summer, two hikers who'd bought canned goods from Devlin's store, got food poisoning, it was the chicken n'dumplings." Sam failed to see the humor, or the point, but he held still, and quiet. "They got so sick they had to be airlifted out."

"Son," Hank put in, realizing Sam's confusion and waning patience. "This map's gotta be ten or fifteen years old. Hell, I got hairs on my ass newer than half the crap Devlin stocks." He extended the map back to him, adding, "in short, it ain't worth the paper it's printed on."

"Wh –" Sam sputtered. But at Pete's irritating half-smile and Hank's knowing, 'you're a dumbass' gaze, Sam's ire increased and his shoulders hunched, tense and angry. "Frank Devlin said he'd been to the mine using this map –"

Both men chuckled, but Pete dissolved into an outright guffaw, eyes watering, holding his sides, the works. Sam's hands balled into fists.

"Kid," Pete said when he found enough air to talk, "Devlin couldn't find his ass with both hands and an ass-map, which would be a far better map than that piece of kindlin'."

It was with a supreme effort but Sam managed to push back his anger. "What has that got to do with me finding my brother?"

"Everything, son," Hank said. While Pete had been laughing uproariously, Hank hadn't. He'd just held his deep blue gaze locked tightly on Sam.

Sam swallowed.

Before answering, Hank spat. A stream of black goop sailed and landed with a squishy splat in the grass beyond. Pete nodded in approval and Sam blanched.

"Well, for one," the ranch owner said, "it means you don't need a horse to get to the mines, which is a good thing 'cuz I doubt very seriously you can ride worth squat."

Sam swallowed a rebuttal. Hank held out the map, his gaze reassessing, measuring and continued, "Widow's Peak was re-categorized as a mountain more'n ten years ago. Your map predates that." Turning the map over, and angling so Sam could see, he pointed at something that wasn't there. "There's a road up the back here."

"A road?" Sam's voice croaked in a combination of incredulity and disbelief. "Wh –why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

"Didn't see any reason to give you any more truth than you'd been givin' me." Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Hank just stared at him, hard. "Son, you don't get to be my age and not know when you're being fed a cockamamie story."

"I—"

"Young man." Hank held up a staying hand. "My granddaddy advised me when I was young and stupid, and I'll do the same for you; never miss a good chance to shut up."

Sam's mouth closed with an audible click and he crossed his arms. First the townsfolk, now the country bumpkins of Crested River Falls –his last nerve was obliterated. Still, he needed their help, so he took a deep breath.

"Out of that entire load of crap you been feedin' me since you got here, I didn't get but one iota of truth, and it's that one iota that's stopped me from runnin' you off with a load of buckshot in your ass."

"It's my brother," Sam choked, frustration and fear swamping his words.

The ranch owner's eyes softened. "I know," he said quietly. "Your brother's missing an' you're worried, that much I got. So, before I offer use of one of my four-wheel vehicles and a guide, s'pose you start there."

Sam swallowed. "He's up at the Claypool Mines and I gotta find him." This time, the fear and anxiety in his voice were genuine.

"Alright." Hank nodded. "Mind tellin' me what the hell he's doin' up at Widow's Peak with a northerly movin' in?"

"He…we." Instead of a lie or truth, he decided on vague. "I wasn't lying when I said he was looking for someone. That's kinda what we do, look for missing people, try to help them. He hit on a hot lead and when he couldn't reach me he took off on his own. The idiot."

It was a harsh thing to say, Sam knew but between selling the reckless actions of his brother, and his own uncertainty at just how much resistance Dean likely had offered the angel at the records office, his assessment had been accurately conveyed within his uncertainty. Until he got Dean back, he wouldn't know the truth. But he _would_ get him back.

The wrangler studied him a moment. "Well, to get to the mine, if he's got the same map as you, he'd need either a mountain goat of a horse and the riding skill to stay on the damn thing."

"Or wings," Pete quipped. Both men stared at him expectantly, waiting his explanation on just how Dean'd gotten half way up a freakishly steep mountain.

At the mention of wings, however, Sam's mind stumbled and he saw red. It was bad enough with demons, but now angels – even the things of Heaven were going to get Dean killed. It was so wrong.

Hank mistook Sam's silence for indecision so he added, "It's an awful lot to ask to risk a man's life on a hunch, son." His blue gaze bore into the taller Winchester. "Guess what I'm getting' at is, how do you know for sure he even made it up there?"

_Because an angel put him there, for some goddam reason, and I've got a bad feeling about this…_

"Because," Sam said aloud, his eyes pleading with this man to believe him, "my brother is _the_ single most determined, stubborn, mule-headed person I know. When he sets his mind to something…" his voice choked in a moment of despair. "Look, I know him and he's up there. I have got to get to him. Please."

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Dean froze. There – he canted his head and listened. It was faint, like a small animal but ... not.

Senses alert, Dean quickly killed the flashlight and stilled. Animal or human, he didn't want to announce his presence in case it was a trick. Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to what little natural light there was, once shapes took definition, he moved on, steps quickening, one hand skimming the cave wall to keep him oriented.

The closer he got, the less animal-like it sounded. The noise became more defined; like a whine instead of a growl. A lament instead of a menace. It made the fine hair at the back of his neck stand up, chilled him to the core.

Dean remembered all too well how wendigos mimicked human voices to perfection. The memory added caution to his steps, but no less determination. The cries could very well be those of its victims and he had to get close enough to know one way or the other.

_God..._ Dean thought as he stared into the distance, hands fisting, how he longed for a flare-gun, a Molotov cocktail, a lighter, anything!

Just as Dean had feared, the meager light allowed for little reaction time and he nearly stumbled over it. This close, he it was easier to see the outline of a small form, barely five yards ahead. Closer still, he could make out the shape of a…

A small child? Dean blinked but continued forward, faster now.

Like she was trying to disappear she sat there, curled into a tiny ball, head buried in her knees. Violent shivers racked her body, from cold or shock, or both. She was filthy and dirt covered, shocks of white blond hair stuck out all over her head. The clothes she wore were tattered and torn, barely clinging to her too skinny limbs.

A whimper of fear signaled to Dean she was probably aware of his presence.

"Hey…" Dean whispered, crouching. "My name's Dean." Needing a better look, and at the same time not wanting to blind the child, he cupped the flashlight before flipping it on. "Don't be scared now, I'm not gonna hurt ya. Just wanna see if you're hurt."

While no expert, Dean estimated her to be no more than seven or eight years old. Lifting her head quickly Dean stopped. Wide terrified eyes locked onto him and she immediately began scuttling back, soundlessly but no less terrified.

"No, no, it's alright," Dean placated, patting the space between them. "I'm not going t'hurt you." Closer still, he crouched down, knees bent, trying to make himself smaller, less imposing. Less frightening.

The child ducked, face hidden in her arms, pressing her side into the wall of the cave. Dean's hands hovered; he didn't trust that his touch wouldn't send her running or worse, screaming and giving up their location.

"Hey there," he cooed gently, softly. "I'm just here to help you. Don't be scared." Dean angled the light to see her wrists; blood and abraded skin showed clearly through the dirt where obviously she'd been bound. "You got loose? You got away, huh?"

Above her folded arms, large, luminescent blue eyes slowly peaked out and met his.

Dean flashed a soft grin, "Yeah, there ya go." Then, cautiously her head was lifting… "See? Sweetheart, I'm not going to–" her head was completely upright, her large eyes were now impossibly enormous. Instead of small trembles, she now shook so violently that Dean feared she'd rattle apart, fly in every direction, "– to hurt you."

It dawned on him then; she wasn't looking at him, but… _beyond_ him. She was bait. And, that meant…

Dean tensed, eyes cutting to the side. "Oh, fu–" then back at the innocent, terrified eyes of the child, "fudge."

Then, just before the low, rumbly growl, Dean's palms started to tingle, the sensation increased, burning, painful. Glancing at them quickly, he saw the palms were red, glowing. The _gift_!

Dean spun, but before he could get his hands up, his world exploded in a white haze of pain. Absolute darkness clouded his thoughts. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

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**~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~**

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The Jeep Wrangler was still rolling when Sam, anxious to get moving, jumped out. He raced up toward the dark clump ahead before slipping to a stop. Breaths puffing, visible in the cool air, he stared.

In its dilapidated condition, the entrance was almost unrecognizable, however a sign to the right, old and faded, but with the words '_Claypool Mine_' clearly visible, was enough than enough to be sure they were in the right place. The opening was a mess, covered by years of overgrowth, fallen rock, and uprooted trees, but even with the rotten planks that fruitlessly boarded the way, it was still accessible.

Having arrived at the mine, there should have been some sense of relief knowing he was yet a step closer to finding his brother, but there wasn't. Only aggravation. It would take time to clear the entrance, time, he felt with a panicked certainty, that Dean did not have.

Sam felt the reassuring lump on his right side; the flare gun pressed at his right hip, just inside his waistband and the less effective colt tucked safely away on the other side. As a precaution, he'd stuffed their second flare gun in the pocket of his coat, along with extra ammunition.

Shivering into the cold, Sam realized the temperature had dropped, yet again. The air was wet, heavy and smelled of snow; that was the _last_ thing they needed now. Drawing the down jacket closer, he turned and headed back to the Jeep where his guide, Nathaniel waited quietly outside.

A Native American had proudly introduced himself as half Cherokee and the best all-around guide on the ranch. Long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a leather thong making the colorful beaded choker with its bone carved amulet centerpiece easy to see.

Standing outside, next to the Jeep, the young Indian held in his arms another jacket, several blankets, a first aid kit and two flashlights. Sam looked at him questioningly.

"Ranch rules," he supplied with a shrug, "each of the Jeeps is loaded with supplies at all times."

"And the coat?" Sam arched one brow.

"Oh," Nathaniel ducked his head, "that I threw in, ya know, just in case your brother was dressed as poorly as you."

"Thanks," Sam nodded. He turned and stared at the boarded entrance. It would take some work but he should be able to clear it out and get underway in an hour or less. He felt a presence and glanced over.

Nathaniel, supplies in his arms, had moved up to stand next to him. No more than twenty-three, Sam guessed, the guide seemed capable enough. However, other than transportation and someone to guide him to the mine, this was where they parted company.

Fine by Sam, really, because another civilian along meant awkward conversations about what it was they might see, and more worry. The younger Winchester had had enough of that, thankyouverymuch.

Sam tugged at the thick leather gloves, also on loan from Hank, and prepared to tell Nathaniel to stay put. Dean would want it this way- less civilian involvement.

"A dark evil haunts that mine."

The warning caught Sam by surprised and he turned to look at his guide.

Nathaniel stood just back a few feet, dark eyes glittering as he stared at the mine. Nervous fingers moved over the medallion at his neck. "You should not go in there. It's dangerous."

"Yeah, well," Sam said as he walked determinedly up to the entrance. Grabbing the first board he continued, "You're probably right about that, so," he grunted and pulled hard. "All the more reason why you should stay here-" the rotted wood practically disintegrated in his hands. "-but my brother is in there." He reached for another, "And I need to get to him. So, you—"

A second set of hands appeared next to his and Sam stepped back in surprise.

"I meant," Nathaniel said as he yanked at the next plank and it too came away with ease. "You should not go in alone." The Native American grabbed the next board and pulled, "If you want to reach your brother," he looked at Sam, panting, "you should get back to work Sam Winchester... instead of wasting time conjuring useless reasons to go alone."

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**~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~**

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The final board was down and both men stood just inside the entrance, breathing hard from exertion. Flashlight in hand Sam carefully scanned the way ahead before taking his first tentative steps forward.

The ground angled down and the dirt floor muffled footsteps but not much else. It was then he realized that while his own labored breathing, a combination of elevation and the earlier exertions to clear the debris, filled the cavern, it was far too loud for one person.

He wasn't alone.

"Your brother must've come in the west entrance."

Sam spun. The .45 was in his hand when he rounded and had his target in his sights. Nathaniel's face, eyes wide and pale with fear, stared back at him.

"Dammit," Sam sighed, he slumped, lowering the weapon.

"I –," Nathaniel stammered, "I didn't mean –"

Sam wasn't listening, Nathaniel's previous comment filtered back to him and he straightened. "Wait… west entrance?"

Nathaniel eyed Sam warily. "Um, yeah," he said, hand shaking as he pointed at the blocked mine. "The boards on this side weren't down, so I just figured…"

"No, no," Sam said shaking his head, tucking the .45 back in its spot at his left hip. "I mean, there's another entrance?"

"Sure. The tunnels run all through this mountain but there is a cut through to the west side of the mountain." The Indian chuckled, "Man, if your brother came up that way, he either had wings or he must be one hell of a rider."

It was the second mention of wings in reference to Dean reaching the mine, and Sam clenched his fists at his side. Not for the first time either he wished badly that Castiel was within reach; the younger Winchester would find a way to choke the life – or whatever it was angels existed with – out of him.

"Look, I appreciate your help, I do." Sam pulled his flare gun, noting how Nathaniel stepped back, and checked the load before pocketing it. "But you're right. There is something evil in these caves but it's what my brother and I do so you should wait here."

"No." Nathaniel said in no uncertain terms. Sam's brow arched in question. "As a small boy, I used to play in these caves – I know them like the back of my hand." He stepped up to Sam pressing his point. "And, I'm a good tracker. If we find your brother's tracks, I could help." Sam opened his mouth, about to argue. "I _want_ to help."

It was Sam's turn now to stare at Nathaniel. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Call it curiosity."

That was exactly the truth, Sam knew it. The Indian's earlier warning not to go in, something about a dark evil haunting the mines… Then, and even now, there was an intensity just below the surface. A haunted look. Remorse.

Sam didn't move; he stood and stared, measuring the young Indian. Nathaniel, to his credit, held his ground, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

After several seconds Sam made up his mind. On nothing more than instinct alone, he'd trust the young Indian, and protect him if necessary. Later, if Dean ever found out, Sam would catch hell – knowledge of the ribbing he'd get made Sam grin. The sobering fact that he was still a long way from actually _finding _Dean, made him resolute.

Nathaniel possessed firsthand knowledge of the tunnels; this was a form of help he couldn't bring himself to turn down.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "But stay close and you do whatever I say whenever I say it. Got it?"

Nathaniel smirked. "You got it chief."

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_To be continued..._

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Am I late? I feel late. I said two days at the end of the 2nd part, but since it was so late when I posted it – like near midnight or maybe after, I wasn't sure of my deadline.

Anyway, I was going to post earlier during the day yesterday but Thanksgiving, and the hours leading up to it, were a bit insane – sick dogs, sick kids, puppy sitting for neighbors who'd left town. Yup, total insanity. Don't know what possessed me to think it would be anything but.

If anyone's reading, hope ya'll had a Happy Thanksgiving! I'll post again Sunday, God willing. Again, this fic is done. Just weeding out the stuff my beta wanted out, rewording some bits that she suggested I reword.

'Til next time…


	4. Chapter 4

**SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission, leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious Gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.**

Beta'd by **mad_server** (should be madSKILLSserver) and **ophium** (birthday girl). Hey, always pick beta's who write way better than you do. Both of these girls are phenomenal. And, they're hurt!Dean girls too!

_Completed fic. Just posting as I go through the finished parts. One part should go up every 1-2 days as I sort through the edits. But it's done *breaths sigh of relief*_

This is a birthday fic written for one of my beta's, the lovely Ophium (Natty), without whom I'd not currently be writing. Without whom I'd not have much sanity left. Because, when someone you know is falling apart and that someone's world is massively connected to yours, it's nice to have an anchor to tie to. Natty's a great anchor. A great friend. Period.

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**~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATTY! ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

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**PART 4**

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Dean felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds. Any moment, it would fall from his shoulders, if those fucking little midgets didn'tstop slamming back and forth inside his skull with pickaxes and hammers. The agony was overwhelming and he groaned in misery…

Big. Fucking. Mistake.

That throaty rasp no sooner rumbled past his sore throat than it morphed into an uncontrollable cough. The fight to breathe was on and his body shook and contorted with the effort. That effort ignited a fire across his shoulders, up his arms.

It was like suffocating. Choking on the gobs of crap trying to push from his chest and wheezing gasps of air to starving lungs, Dean wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his aching torso and fold into himself. Only he couldn't.

As feeling returned, he realized his shoulders and arms hurt like hell. When his body swayed uncontrollably, he knew something was very wrong.

The effort was immense but he soon forced his head back and pried open watery eyes. Slowly, painfully, his situation swam lazily into view.

Blood cut a trail down his arms from where ropes chafed and cut into his wrists. That same rope secured his hands overhead at the wrists, leading to a beam high above. Suspended and vulnerable he hung there, the tips of his boots swinging freely several feet from the ground.

"Shit…" he breathed out, eyes watering before they closed. It was hard enough to get air through congested lungs with both feet planted, arms close, but to be stretched like this…

"You alright mister?" a voice called from the dark.

Dean's eye snapped open and he froze. The shock, the oddity of the voice was enough to quell his coughing and he was able to right himself enough to squint in the direction he'd heard the sound. In the murky darkness of the cave he blinked in surprise – it was a kid!

After a few nervous backward glances, the kid edged closer, feet shuffling into the dirt floor. While older than the little girl he'd found earlier, he was still young and his clothes hung from his frail frame. They too were every bit as dirty and torn.

Eyeing Dean sympathetically, he whispered harshly, "I can get you water if you need it, but you gotta stay quiet."

Dean wanted to answer, even if it was just his sick mind was playing tricks on reality, but instead dissolved into another fit of coughing. Strung up, dangling, the pressure on his already restricted airways was tripled. Even these small coughs pushed against the lack of air, and upon subsiding, left him lightheaded and dizzy.

"Hang on," the boy whispered harshly, cutting through his hazy mind.

When Dean opened his eyes, he was alone. _That's it. I'm hallucinating_.

Pain radiated up and down his strained limbs and Dean's eyes drifted shut once more. God he hurt. Even his _hair_ hurt. Small coughs continued to rack his body, sending him swinging lightly, though even that pulled like hell at his arms and shoulders.

"Hey," a voice whispered. Chin resting against his chest, Dean opened bleary eyes to focus on the _not-really-there_ boy once again. "Here."

It was a bottle of water, gripped tightly in small hands, lifted in offering toward the captive. It looked real enough to make Dean's mouth water, but just like the boy, it wasn't. Even if it had been real, suspended far too high to reach the container, the act proved pointless.

"That's –" Dean coughed, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. On any other day, talking to someone who wasn't there would have him questioning his mental state. But, hell, hours ago he'd been talking to a horse, so why the hell not? "Th-that's... n-nice."

The _not-really-a-_boy shook the water, expectantly and Dean's brow furrowed. Were hallucinations supposed to be this… persistent and annoying? The 'kid', too far away to reach him, acted like he could just hop down whenever he wanted.

Still, he went on to answer, "I...can't exactly reach." Dean's eyes drooped. It hurt too much to think, between the pounding in his head, the weight inside his chest, his agonized muscles. Maybe if he could just rest a moment, get the pain under control…"But… th-thanks anyway," he panted.

Eyes closed, Dean willed his breaths to stay shallow and even. Fugly'd be back and he needed to be able to hear him over his own loud, wheezing breaths. The bone chilling cold of the cave left his teeth clacking noisily together, though his hands felt none of it. They were numb where the ropes were drawn tight enough to cut off his circulation.

Something touched his chin and Dean jerked in surprise. He opened his eyes but otherwise didn't move. Just too damn tired.

"Mister," the boy's soft voice whispered into the darkness, sympathetic and a bit urgent. He pressed the hard plastic opening of the water bottle to Dean's lower lip. "Here. Drink."

Dean grunted in his haze of pain and exhaustion. The hallucination was so strong he could practically smell the fresh liquid and it filled him with want. Lack of strength kept him still, however, and his head dropped, chin lax against his chest, his eyes fallingclosed, lids too heavy to do more.

The boy sighed and placed a hand under Dean's chin and lifted enough to get the opening of the bottle back to his mouth. Pressing it tight to his lower lip he tried again, "Please."

Dean's eyes opened, gazing wearily at him. This close, the kid's eyes imploring and beseeching, Dean felt a renewed surge of fear. "You're… real?" _No, no, no... please don't let him be real_. Because real meant this boy, this child was in danger too. Real meant he shouldn't be here now, helping him...

Brow scrunched, the boy nodded. "Yeah, 'course." Again he pressed the bottle to flesh and begged, "Drink. Please."

Every instinct told him not to. This was the worst place for this kid to be. Tell him to run, leave. Get as far away from him as possible. But, dammit, he needed the water. Needed the help this kid could give him.

Need driving him, Dean didn't nod. Instead, he bent his head weakly toward the container while the boy lifted his chin. The bottle upended, the first splash of water hit his tongue and Dean heard himself groan in relief. The taste became a wall of sensation that made his head spin with need and want. No further urging was necessary.

Beyond thirsty, he pressed forward, anxiously, greedily, gulping at the liquid. With a desire he'd never known he wanted to crawl inside the container. He closed his lips over the bottle opening and was soon hollowing his cheeks as he took long and grateful pulls; eyes closed, Dean felt his head swoon in the darkness.

"Ease up," the boy urged. "Mister…"

The words didn't really register. He continued forward, trying to get closer to the bottle, wanting more. Then, realizing it was being pulled away, panic shot through him. He bent in pursuit, refusing to stop…

"That's all there is," the youth announced. He wrenched the container out of Dean's mouth, teeth scraping against the plastic. Dean, however, head swooning, lost in need, continued, searchingly. "Mister, it's all gone."

Finally, Dean came back to himself. Pulling back he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. "Thanks," he managed, his head fairly spinning in quenched relief. It was euphoric the way waves of gooseflesh shot down his back.

More scrabbling and Dean opened his eyes in time to see the boy edging toward the exit, peering cautiously around the corner. "Wait." Dean knew he sounded desperate but this kid was his chance for freedom, because it didn't appear Sam would make it. "Wh-what's your n-n-name? Mine's Dean."

The boy stuttered to a stop but stilled. One foot already out and the other in, he cast Dean sideways, uncertain glances. "Look, I can't stay. It'll hear. It'll come back."

"It," Dean stated simply. "You mean the knock-kneed, g-gangly, sickly looking dude with the strength of a f-five men and who can mimic any voice it hears? That the 'it' you're talking about?"

"I –," the boy's lower lip started trembling. "It's got my parents, my s-sister. I..."

Dean took pity on the boy. "What's your name? C-c-can't keep just c-c-calling you kid." The shivering became more pronounced.

The boy looked nervously around a moment then, "I'm Kyle."

"C-cool. I'm Dean." Tremors were a constant thing but this one rocked his body so hard he winced at the pull on his arms and shoulders. In a constant effort to keep at least some blood flow in his extremities, every so often he'd taken to flexing his fingers and ankles. This time, his hands wouldn't move. _Dammit_.

Kyle must've noticed the look and asked, "What's wrong?"

Dumbest ass question he'd heard all day, but Dean blew it off, "Oh, just hangin' round, ya know. Tryin' t'get c-comfortable."

Well, he'd meant to blow it off. Hadn't meant the sarcasm – well, he'd meant it but just not meant for Kyle to _hear_ it, and if the kid's expression was any indicator, he did. "So," Dean quickly tried to cover, "h-how old are you Kyle? Ten? Eleven?"

Looking only slightly less sulky, Kyle answered, "Nine."

"Really?" he hoped his surprised grin didn't look as pained as he felt. "Well, c-c-coulda fooled me." It was a lie but he needed this boy to think and act beyond his years. "I mean, g-g-getting away from that thing; takes a pretty brave guy t'do that."

"I'm not brave." Kyle's head dropped. "I was out in the woods, playing when it got my family." A tear slipped from his face to plop onto the dusty ground. "I hid when I heard my Mom scream. It hurt my Da– " he choked off into a sob.

"Hey, you're here n-now aren't you?" Dean gritted out. It wasn't an idle compliment; this time he meant it. "You're brave m-man, don't ever feel d-d-different." The boy shrugged his small shoulders. "So, how'd you end up here?"

"I followed it. But it moved so fast…"

"Yeah, don't I know it," Dean said mostly to himself. "Look," he grunted when the pressure on his arms momentarily rocked his pain threshold. "Y-ya gotta find a w-way to cut me loose. Once I'm down, I'll kill that thing –"

"No," Kyle whispered angrily and took a step back. At Dean's questioning look, he continued, "You don't understand. I saw it drag my family in the tunnels, but I don't know where it's keeping them. If you kill it, I'll never find'm."

A scraping noise caught both their attention and Kyle turned wide-eyed toward the opening. "Oh no..."

"Kyle, listen," Dean said trying anxiously to get the boy's attention. Having heard it too, and seeing that the boy was ready to bolt. "I can help, just climb back on that rock and untie me." But the kid was looking at the exit, inching toward it. "No, no, no, Kyle –"

"You don't understand." Kyle shook his head. "It's my responsibility," he whispered anxiously.

"Hey," Dean whispered edgily, enough to garner Kyle's attention again. "I get that." He fought back a desperate need to cough. "I have a b-b-brother and like you, I feel responsible for him." Desperation was edging into his voice. "Listen, I _will_ find your family. Just ge—"

The scraping sounded much closer. Kyle stiffened then dropped to a crouch. "I gotta go." And he was gone.

"NO!" Dean practically shouted. The fervent call only succeeded in sending him deep into another coughing fit, this one worse than the others.

Somewhere in the suffocating, in the wheezing and pathetic attempts to draw breath, Dean heard the scraping replaced by a low, guttural growl. Somewhere in that attempt to control his breathing while he dangled there, chest heaving, shivering, he understood why the kid ran. Hell, he'd love nothing more than to do the same.

While his body convulsed, his chest agonized and his head swam, something suddenly tore viciously into his side. The shock of this knife-like pain polarized his senses. The coughs caught in his throat and he managed to look down.

The wendigo's half dead, empty eyes met his.

Out of habit, he tried to ball his hands into fists, preparing to fight, despite the fact that they were secured above his head and he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. The bindings around his wrists were so tight that instead of fingers, they felt like ten water balloons strapped to the end of his arms.

Pressure suddenly began to build in his gut, warmth that coursed through his body, the anticipation of the heat of battle that dissolved the bone chilling cold. Hanging there, he stared, helplessly back at pure evil.

The wendigo's hungry eyes stared gleefully up at its captive, a feral grin, macabre and grotesque, pulling at its thin flesh. Dean swallowed knowing it would feast slowly, gluttonously on its live prey, promising intense pain.

They were more like deep, colorless pits than eyes, surrounded by rotted flesh that hugged what remained of muscle and skeletal remnants. Razor like teeth flashed as its lips parted; it snarled, drool falling from gray teeth in gooey strings.

The source of his agony, Dean realized as he gazed downward, was pressed to his side. One nail of the wendigo's claws was buried in his skin. Blood, his blood, flowed freely, pooling at the waistband of his denim jeans.

The nail wiggled and Dean gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. Jaw clenched, he huffed out, "You'll have to do be-better th-than that you son of a—"

Dean's breath caught. The wendigo's sharp nail was moving. Dean's back arched.

It was a slow, torturous drag as razor-like claw tore into flesh, dragged across, ripping, splitting his skin.

Raising his eyes, Dean looked away, focusing inward. The effort to remain quiet shook his body, but he felt the sticky wetness of blood as it flowed in the wake of breached flesh and poured freely down his rib cage.

Unimpressed by his stoic display, the claw dug deeper, moving through tissue. When it struck bone and Dean's vision grayed. His breath caught and he bit his lip to keep quiet. Somewhere in the agony noticed the earlier pressure was now unrelenting; heat, suddenly magnified, claiming his attention. The cutting, the building heat, the pain, it all seemed to go on forever…

Then, just as quickly, it stopped.

Dean's vision slowly cleared. In effort to avoid another painful bout of coughing, he fought to keep his breaths shallow and even. When he was fairly sure he wouldn't pass out, he looked down.

The wendigo had laid bare a long gash just along his ribcage, nearly deep enough to expose bone.

In his haze of pain, Dean caught the smell of something burnt, but it faded, consumed by the overwhelming, putrid, death-like stench of the wendigo. Dean's head rocked back and he held his breath to avoid gagging. A triumphant sneer tilted one side of the creature's angular face and it raised one claw up, just far enough for Dean to see.

It was the same razor-sharp claw it had used to slice him. Dark fluid oozed down either side – it was his blood, Dean's blood – and bits of his own flesh clung to the tip.

The digit was pushed closer to Dean's face and the hunter recoiled. "Dude...," Dean coughed quietly, that pressure still radiating through his body. He wondered if it had poisoned him somehow. "Anyone ever tell you 'snot nice to brag?"

The wendigo leered, holding his captive's gaze. Then, Dean watched as it put the appendage in its mouth, and sucked gleefully.

"'K," Dean grimaced, trying to stave off another fit of coughing, "now you're..." it was getting harder to breath, "you're just trying to make me sick...er."

The claw came out if its mouth with a sickening pop and Dean felt his stomach turn. He dropped his head back, trying to collect himself. After a moment he realized that except for the whistling sound of his congested lungs the small cave had gone utterly quiet.

It was a stupid thing to hope but he did. The sawing of his lungs might've covered the sounds of its exit. But if it was gone, after someone else – Dean suddenly had to know and looked down. The damn thing was still there, and worse, it was creepily still, staring in morbid fascination at Dean's eviscerated side.

A single 'what the fuck' moment passed through Dean's mind before the wendigo, as if to answer, licked its lips and bent its head. Tongue extended grotesquely, saliva dropping from the tip, it moved inexorably toward the blood running down his side.

"Oh hell no!" Dean was all motion. Panicked and freaked, he bucked and twisted with all he had.

The force of adrenaline crashed into him like a tsunami. Dean felt his back arch with the intensity of it. The edges of his vision grayed, his breath stopped. The pressure was overwhelming, the heat suffusing his body, chasing away consciousness. That burning smell again…

The roaring in his ears was like a freight train, almost drowning out the loud scream, no; it was more like a piercing screech. It wailed and echoed off the walls of the small alcove prison, ricocheting in Dean's head.

Dean's body suddenly jerked and he was weightless, falling. The blackness swallowing him whole.

Then, the ground slammed into him, and the impact drove the air from his lungs. Facedown, his world quickly narrowed to a frantic need to gather his next breath, unaware of the smoldering bits of rope raining down all around him.

"Shit…" he grunted. After a moment, he rolled to his back, forcing his eyes open. Lightheaded, still struggling to breath, his sight continued to dip and ooze. "This… part… of plan, Cas?" he panted.

Lying on his back, exhausted and hurting, a curtain of grey slowly lowered, shrouding his sight. Then, eyes rolling back in his head, he let the ocean of pain and weariness drag him under completely.

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Sam and Nathaniel moved at a good clip through the narrow tunnels, the flashlight's beam illuminating all that lay ahead and around. There'd been a frightening stretch of time when they hadfound nothing - actually, nearly two _hours_ of nothing, and Sam had been near panic.

Thenthey'd found the blood trail.

On bended knee, Nathaniel had studied the dark lines, and the deep groves next to them. It was evidence something, or someone, had been dragged.

"Definitely went this way," Nathaniel looked up at Sam. "Judging by how the sand is angled out and to the left. We head that direction," he said, pointing to the left most tunnel.

"You're sure." It wasn't a question. Sam didn't look at him, just pointed the beam in the direction indicated, heart in his throat. He wanted this to be right but after two agonizing hours of nothing he wanted more to be sure.

Wisely, the younger man said nothing, choosing instead to tap Sam's shoulder and beckon him onward. Sam sighed but nodded and once again the two were off.

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Somewhere beneath the surface of his unconscious mind, Dean heard something move around him. The wendigo. _Fuck._

"...M sorry..." A small, familiar voice faded in and out. "Gotta... up mister..." Something tapped his face lightly, the voice was stronger now. "You promised... wake up."

It just felt too good laying there. Ok, it hurt like hell, but not moving, he was sure, was infinitely better than the alternative. Then drops of water began dripping tantalizingly into his mouth - that did it.

The water sent white sparks exploding behind closed eyes and he lifted his head greedily for more. Liquid flooded his mouth and he groaned in equal parts bliss and agony, because lifting his head hurt like a bitch.

"Easy," the voice soothed, then, "No more for now." Dean's head was gently lowered to rest on the hard surface.

Dean panted; that damned wheezing again, it sawed into the silence, like nails on a chalk board. He wasn't sure but he was practically positive it was worse than before.

"I didn't mean to hurt you but... I'm sorry, but there was so much blood."

Fully conscious now, Dean opened his eyes a crack. Kyle sat staring at him, anxious eyes filled with worry. Then, he took stock of himself; he was stretched out on the cavern floor, the unforgiving ground pressed against his aching back.

Above him, a wood beam ran parallel, the remains of a thick rope in tatters still dangling.

Something touched his side and memory slammed home. _Wendigo!_ He bolted upright. Or tried to. "F-" he sucked in a breath, teeth clenched around the pain. It was a pitiful attempt, but he managed to scramble back just a little.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just checking the bandage."

"Wh – " Deans eyes wide and panicked, searched the darkness. "Where- ?" Mind still fuzzy, he couldn't' seem to string the words into a complete question.

Kyle caught on. "It's gone," he supplied hurriedly. "Been gone for about a half hour, I think. You shouldn't move. You'll bleed more."

Dean's eyes slid closed. Exhausted, he lay there, waiting for the agony screaming in his side to abate. Didn't really matter though because he hurt all over; this was just one more pain to add to the already growing list. Lying here wasn't going to change anything.

"Kyle…" Dean whispered when he finally found his breath. One tentative hand moved to the bulk of material covering his otherwise naked torso.

"Don't mess with that. Took forever to do."

Curious, Dean looked down and in the blue light of a cell phone that Kyle held he could see a makeshift bandage wrapped around his midsection.

When he shifted just a bit too much, he hissed, "Son of a b-" glanced quickly at the boy and amended, "gun." There was something oddly familiar about the cloth binding his wound. "Where'd you get this...?"

"From over there," Kyle pointed, aiming the glowing cell's light across the room, toward a stack of clothing piled against the far wall.

Dean twisted, hissing when the slight motion sent daggers of pain through his midsection. Even in the slight glow of the cell he could see the small stack of clothing that consisted of his green coat, boots, button down shirt. Only thing he couldn't see was...

"Aaah, man," he whined, glancing down to lightly finger what used to be his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, now serving as bandage. "'S is my favorite shirt."

"I'm sorry," Kyle said meekly, his voice quivering ever so slightly.

Even with imperfect light, Dean saw the boy was near to tears. "Hey," he said, cuffing the boy lightly on the chin. "So happens... this is my favorite blood too so..." Dean grinned as Kyle looked up at him, "'s all good."

That seemed to help; a small smile played on the youths face. "You want some more water?"

Dean waved the question off weakly. "Nah, I'll wait a bit." Through bleary, and what Dean was pretty damn sure were feverish eyes, he studied the boy. "So, what made you change your mind?"

Kyle was quiet a moment. "Can you really find my parents? My sister?"

"Yea. I think so," Dean nodded. It was painful swallowing against the fuzz that clogged his throat, he realized he was still shivering. How long could a person shiver before their joints just gave up and their bones just... rattled apart?

"You're burning up," Kyle said pressing one of his small cool hands his forehead. Dean coughed and Kyle pulled his hand away. "And, you look awful."

"Good." Dean coughed a laugh and cracked a grin at the kid. "'Cause I'd hate to think…" he coughed, "I felt this crappy and didn't look it."

"So," Kyle started again after a moment, "how'd the ropes get burned like that?"

Dean dragged his eyes open. "Huh?"

Kyle sat gazing at something in his left hand, but the absurdity of the question left Dean staring at him as if he'd grown a second head - and in his line of work, that was not all that unlikely a possibility.

When he was sure there was only one Kyle-head, Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "What'd you say?"

"The ropes." Kyle picked up a few twine remnants. "They're charred. See?"

Dean looked at the blackened ends – frayed, not cut. "You mean you didn't...?"

Kyle shook his head. "I came back, smelled something burning. Made sure _it _was gone first, then... as I got closer heard something drop - you I think - when I came in, you were lying here."

"I..." Dean really didn't know what to say, and his head just ached too much to consider the possibilities because to his mind, there weren't any. "Huh," he finally answered. "Dunno."

"You're sick," Kyle sniffed out. "I shoulda cut you down before it –"

"Nah," Dean grunted as he worked to pull himself into a seated position. "There wasn't time before anyway."

It was a lie of sorts. He had _the gift_, whatever the hell that was, and if he'd even gotten one hand free… Then again, he had no real idea how to use it, some details he realized he'd just not gotten before heading off on this half-cocked, dumbass plan.

Dean looked at what served as a source of light - the cell phone. He waved a hand. "That how you're finding your way 'round in here?"

Kyle nodded."It's all I had."

"Pretty smart thinking," Dean sighed. It wasn't much of a flashlight but it would have to do for the time being.

Kyle's small shoulders shrugged. "Not sure how much longer the battery will last."

"Well," Dean said taking shallow breath, "I'm not doing anybody any good sitting on my as – " he looked at Kyle's wide eyes, " – keester." God, being around kids was hard. One hand against the cave wall for support he pushed himself up and stumbled to a wavy stand.

The world spun. "Woah," Dean's eyes slammed shut. Following the hand still holding to the cave, he followed blindly to lean his head against the stone, hoping to ride it out rather than fall.

"Mister – Dean?"

Dean waved, "Just… gimme a sec." Free hand clutched at his midsection in support of the bandage he knew wasn't tight. The blood that trickled down his side, snaking down his hip told him as much.

Unable to do much about the constant throbbing in his head, his arms, his side – hell, his everything, he realized he could do something about the unbearable cotton in his mouth. Buy more time. Might even help.

"I'll take some of that water now," Dean panted dizzily. The water bottle momentarily split into two waters, and Dean waited 'til it went back to one before reaching out.

"Sure." Kyle handed it to him.

Balance still tenuous, leaned his full body against the wall now and pressed the opening to his mouth. The water hadbarely touched his lips when he froze. The bandage, his jacket, the water, they were all his, so maybe...

"Kyle," Dean grimaced. The bottle lowered, he pivoted on unsteady feet and squinted at the garments heaped against the wall. "Help me over there."

Quietly, the boy stepped forward and Dean placed a trembling hand on his slight shoulder for balance, he told himself. Each laborious step, however, left him breathing louder and harder; each mouthful of air more ineffective than the previous. To his utter embarrassment, Dean could feel himself leaning heavier on Kyle, the muscles of his legs starving for oxygen that just would not reach them in time.

Even with the support, Dean stumbled, but Kyle moved up close and wrapped his scrawny arms around his waist. _Great,_ the hunter thought bitterly, coughing up a glob of phlegm, _I'm being held like some __blushing prom date._

There was no denying he was sick, again, but the blood loss had done him no favors. Feeling weak as a new-born kitten, he warred mentally against the self-doubt; not at all certain he was up to taking on a wendigo, let alone rescue Kyle's family.

"Ya kn-know," Dean huffed. "Wendigos with a blood fetish? I didn't need that. I really just—" bending over, he reached for his jacket, but with his head below his heart, the world tipped. "Woah."

The ground rose up from nowhere, shifting all around him like a water mattress. His full weight was more than Kyle could bear so Dean, no stranger to wounds that left one dizzy and unsteady, pushed back. As a result, the cave floor slammed into his ass, not his head. Well, that was something. At least.

Knees bent so he could prop his elbows atop, he folded his arms and lowered his head, forehead resting on his forearms. Eyes closed, he fought off yet another dizzy spell. "Look through my coat," he panted and coughed. "See if you can find—"

"This?"

Dean lifted his head. Kyle turned on the flashlight, the beam illuminating the wall.

"Yahtzee," Dean grinned. Their eyes locked and for a second Kyle's face lit up, then it was gone. The boy's gaze went to the exit, his face drawn down in pinched, distant concern.

The boy didn't say anything but Dean knew where his heart and head were. The longer this took the less likely he'd find them – _if_ he found them – alive.

Kyle looked around hesitantly, like he didn't know what to say or do next. Dean figured he probably knew what and it was probably something like, _You promised! Now get off your ass, you dick, and find my family!_ — only, minus all the swearing.

"Well, c'mon," Dean said, letting the kid off the hook. Reaching out he grabbed the wall to steady his next attempt at vertical. "Let's get this party started alrea—," he doubled over, a series of harsh coughs shaking him from head to toe.

"You alright?" Kyle's small voice asked.

"Peachy," Dean wheezed, dizzy and breathless. Leaning against the side of the cave, he cracked one eye open to find Kyle's worried face peering back. "Right," he straightened and waved the boy forward. "C'mon, let's find your family."

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_To be continued…_

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Hey, it's still Sunday here in Texas. I'm not late. I'm not!

If you've seen where I missed something, because I tweek after my beta's, yes I do. Mess up all their hard work. Anyway, just let me know, I'll fix what's broke, nail it back into place. Or, convexly, if nothin's broke, and you see something you like, I can handle that too.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Best Betas Ever:**_ **mad_server**, and the birthday girl for whom this was written, **ophium**. This story was for her. Still is. I've said it before and I'll say it again; she's a great friend.

_**Best Reviewers Ever:**_ You! I haven't posted a multi-chapter fic in ages and this was just so fun. Even if you're just a reader, I appreciate that too.

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**PART 5 **

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"These tracks," Nathaniel said, crouched, fingers ghosting over odd shaped footprints in the dirt floor. "They're deeper. The wendigo's carrying his prey now." He straightened and looked at Sam, eyes brimming with something akin to excitement.

"What'd you just say?" Sam asked, suspicion narrowing his gaze.

Nathaniel grinned. "We haven't lost their trail, Sam. That's what I'm saying. C'mon!" When he turned to bolt Sam snaked out a hand and caught the Indian by one sleeve, keeping him in place.

"You..." Sam studied his Indian companion's face, sure now that he heard him correctly. "You called it...a wendigo."

"What –?" Nathaniel seemed prepared to bluff, but thought better of it. His face fell just for a second before impassiveness shut him off. "Does it really matter?" His shoulders were squared, challenging.

"It might." Sam showed his own defiance, but he kept it cool, calm. "How do you know about wendigos Nathaniel? And how long have you known about this _particular_ wendigo?"

The Indian's chin notched up. "You want my help or not?"

Sam did, and he wanted to find Dean, and Nathaniel had proved over the course of their journey that he knew the mines, as he'd said. Before that, though, from the time they'd reached the mine entrance, there'd been something a little… off about the young Indian guide. Something Sam couldn't quite put his finger on.

Nathaniel, armed with an impeccable sense of direction, facilitated by familiarity with numerous landmarks and signs along the way, pointed out things Sam would've thought insignificant. As a result, they'd found evidence of _recent_ human activity in the caves. But, Sam reasoned, what good was knowledge without trust?

That little slip, Sam couldn't overlook. It was time to learn more about his guide. Revelation, however, often came with a price, so Sam steeled one hand to the small of his back and wrapped his hand carefully around the hilt of his silver knife, hidden safely beneath the waist of his jeans.

"I do want your help, but you see," Sam gripped the knife hilt tight, tensing; "I just don't have a lot of trust for people who aren't straight with me. Like say, a tracker that all of a sudden knows a hell of a lot more about things that go bump in the night than they led others to believe."

Nathaniel yanked his arm out of Sam's grasp and walked sideways, never offering the hunter his back. This posture telegraphed plainly that the Indian knew perfectly well what Sam had hidden behind his back.

The Indian guide studied Sam. The coiled set of his broad shoulders, ready to attack with lethal precision, the angry light in his glittering stare. It occurred to Nathaniel then how he might have made a mistake in trying to fool this man.

After only a second's hesitation, Nathaniel said, "When I was a kid my friends and I found these old mines, played in them every day for nearly three weeks."

Nathaniel clenched his fists, his eyes far away. He swallowed around a painful memory. "Until our parents found out and put a stop to it. You know, all the 'you'll get hurt' and shit."

Gazing down at his feet, the Indian took a breath before continuing. "So we did what any kid would do."

"You went anyway."

"We went anyway," Nathaniel echoed, his words filled with regret. "Before we could, one of the old tribal elders overheard us planning our secret trip and told us a story that we thought was just to frighten us."

Sam swallowed. "Did it have anything to do with an Indian turning to cannibalism to survive?"

Nathaniel blinked in surprise. "You – he also told us about men like you."

"Men like me?" Sam asked curiously. The awe and fear in the gaze Nathaniel leveled at him was making him uncomfortable.

"Yes," Nathaniel nodded, "hunters of evil and darkness." The next words were spoken like a retelling a story from his youth. "Even in the old days of men and horses, they walked the wicked land, destroying that which would destroy. Your brother, he is one too? A hunter?"

This was getting really uncomfortable, but Sam nodded anyway. "Yeah, that's what we do."

"Man," Nathaniel huffed and shook his head in disbelief. "I never did believe a damn thing that old geezer told me, guess I should've huh?"

Sam shrugged, "Maybe." Before they got too far off track, and because the topic of what he and Dean did for a living from the perspective of an outsider was just too… weird, Sam redirected. "Nathaniel, what was the story the elder told?"

"You think it'll help?" There was a look of reluctance in the Indian's eyes.

"The more I know," Sam persisted, "the better."

Nathaniel nodded. "There was this old shaman, a medicine man and in 1863, in the middle of the coldest winter this area'd ever seen, got lost in the mountains. Half starved to death, he happened upon some trappers, mountain men."

A shiver raced along Nathaniel's back and his voice took on a distant, ancient tone. "Half crazy but holding to the old Indian faith, he caught one of them off alone, slaughtered him, drank his blood. The blood offered enough strength for him to drag the body off and later that night, he ate the man's flesh and became immortal."

"Wendigo." Sam said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Nathaniel huffed, "A monster. But yeah," he nodded, "that's what the elder called him. Or –it."

Sam studied his face. There was so much pain there, so much... loss. There was more to the story and he had a feeling he already knew. "So, what happened next?"

"We were stupid, that's what," he answered, voice edged with bitterness. "Like most stupid kids, me and my friends, we all thought it was all a load of crap. So, we went ahead with our plans and sneaked back to the mines that night. A little scared but not willing to admit it, we had to prove ourselves both brave and grown up. Inside the mines we split up to explore. Then we heard it." He stilled. "This… growl. Then there was this... inhuman scream."

"Crap," Sam murmured understandingly. A vicious tremble shuddered through the younger man's body, visible, laden with fear and guilt. He knew those emotions like he knew his own childhood fears, his and Dean's.

"Then there was more screaming, this time, all of it human."

"I'm sorry." And he was. It was not a flippant declaration on Sam's part. No child should be subjected to such evil.

"I saw it." The flat declaration brought Sam's head up quickly.

Nathaniel met Sam's gaze. "We went to help our friends and I was the first one to arrive and - I'll never forget what I saw. Or – thought I saw. I mean it was there one second and gone the next. So fast." The guide's voice held equal measures fear and awe. "Eight of us went in that night, only four of us left."

"You ever come back before tonight?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "I'm a coward."

Sam thought for a moment. "Tell me something." He rummaged around in his coat pocket. "That tribal elder ever tell you how to kill a wendigo?"

"No. I was too scared to face him again and he died a week after the deaths." He looked at Sam now, his eyes filled with determination and rage. "But now, if need be, I'll rip that thing apart with my bare hands."

Not for the first time, Nathaniel fingered the amulet around his neck and Sam finally asked, "What's that?"

Nathaniel looked down in surprise, like he hadn't realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. Pressing, Sam added, "Looks like some sort of totem."

The Indian nodded. "Afterward, when no one would believe an eleven year old kid, and when the nightmares kept me awake for months, my grandfather gave me this amulet for protection."

"Nathaniel," Sam said, waiting until the young man's wild eyes were fixed on his. It was time to give this young man some peace. "You're not a coward. If you'd tried to go in after that wendigo without an inkling of how to kill it? The only thing you'd have achieved would've been a quick and fairly messy death."

"But the wendigo killed my friends and now others..." A muscle jumped in the Native American's jaw. "I tried to find out how to kill it, you know. Couldn't find anything. But I never should've allowed it to live for this long. I should've tried-"

"Tried what? The bare hands thing again? A shot gun?" Sam shook his head sympathetically because he understood the need for revenge all too well. "You would've failed and wouldn't have changed anything."

Nathaniel looked long and hard at Sam and came to a conclusion. "You know how to kill it." It wasn't a question.

"I know what will kill it," Sam echoed. He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out their spare flare gun. Handing it to Nathaniel.

Brow arched in surprise, the Indian stared at the proffered weapon. "A flare gun?"

"Bare hands, guns, knives, they won't do the job, but that will. Guaranteed." Sam turned and pointed the beam of his flashlight into the darkness. "Fire's the only way to kill it and it mimics voices perfectly, so be on your guard."

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Dean couldn't say for sure how long they'd been walking, but he could say with utter certainty that he was ready for them to stop moving. In his condition, he was well aware that while it felt like miles to him, it was probably, in reality, only a few yards.

His reality, he decided, sucked ass. Totally.

Kyle and he made a good team. When Dean's vision faded in and out of focus, he'd talk to Kyle, tell him what he was looking for on the ground around them. Scared shitless, the kid kept his feedback brief and only stated exactly what Dean asked for.

"There's lots of dirt inside the footprint, yes."

"Dammit."

"Why? What's that mean?"

"Means the print's more than a few hours old. Means the wendigo hasn't been down this way in a good while."

"Mean's we're going the wrong way?"

"Probably." Dean nodded, looking around. At the sight of Kyle's crestfallen face, he felt his gut twist but he refused to add to the boys' sense of defeat, or to allow the boy to believe there was no hope. "Hey, we only just started. Don't get all down in the mouth on me now."

"I know, but.... it took us so long just to get this far."

"Dude, why didn't you say something then?" Oh geez, he was so going to regret this. "Let's pick up the pace. C'mon." Dean was angling his body to head back the way they'd come, but as he turned the cave turned faster, and flipped... and lunged. He threw a hand out to catch one wall and closed his eyes.

"You're a sucky liar."

Head bowed, Dean husked, "cut me some slack, kid." After a moment, when the room no longer danced he gave Kyle's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and righted himself once more. "This isn't shaping up to be one of my better days."

Dean's lungs grated and rattled into the silence, but he managed to get a better pace this time. Though, breathing was getting harder – he attributed that to the faster pace.

"What's a..." Kyle started hesitantly, "wendigo? Is it human?"

Dean eyed him a second, not at all sure he wanted to be the one to give names to the boy's future nightmares. Still, he had the right to know. "Far from it now, but at one time it probably was."

Dean kept the flashlight trained on the ground and the two ate up the ground, or at least it felt like that. Any other day he'd leave some nine year old kid trailing far behind but today, he found Kyle easily matching his speed. _Dammit._

When the flashlight caught on something shiny Dean stopped short. "Huh…" He squinted, looking at the object. Fully intent on kneeling down to get a better look, he noticed Kyle out of his periphery moving past him.

The boy examined the folded leather, opening up to the contents. It was a wallet. "It's my dad's." His head was dipped down and Dean didn't realize he was crying until a tear slapped against the driver's license.

"Hey." Dean moved painfully to stand next to the boy. "This is actually a good thing." Shining the flashlight further into the tunnel, gazing at the prints. "Means we're going the right way."

It was then Dean heard it. A sound. Something other than the damn sawing of his lungs. Squinting, Dean moved ahead further. The sounds got closer as he moved.

Kyle heard it too. "What—?"

"Shhhh…" Dean held up a hand. He cut his eyes left. "You hear that?" When Kyle nodded silently, he added, "Yeah, me too."

Until they knew who or what that was, Dean chose to err on the side of caution and covered the end of the flashlight, minimizing the intensity of the ray. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction he and Kyle had been heading so he turned and made his way slowly back.

It was a particularly dark part of the cave, bordering on pitch black, so rather than risk running into a wall or a wendigo, he uncovered just enough of the beam to illuminate the ground. Sure enough, the wendigo's footprints coincided with the direction of the sounds, which, as they drew closer, were more and more… human.

"Sounds like…" Kyle's voice trembled in the dark.

Dean stopped and turned toward the boy. "Listen to me. Wendigo's know how to imitate human voices. Perfectly. You got it?"

"I know." Kyle's brow scrunched and his breathing increased speed, like he was trying very hard to control himself. "I was behind a rock when it was trying to lure me out, it didn't know I saw it. Sounded like m-my mo-mom."

The hitch in the boy's voice left Dean hollowed, but it wasn't time to give into the sympathy so instead, he gave a curt nod. "Ok. So you know to just play it cool 'til we know what's what. Right?"

Dean didn't wait this time to see the look of acceptance. After the hell Kyle'd been through, surviving despite it all, he knew. Turning back toward the sounds, he began moving once more. The cave seemed to bend and fork up ahead. Stopping at the juncture he listened.

A voice called from the right tunnel, far ahead: "…ase help us!"

"That's my mom's voice," Kyle sniffed, passing a sleeve under his nose.

Dean glanced down at Kyle. He stared down the passage way, eyes filling with unshed tears. Gently he pressed a trembling hand against the boy's chest and pushed him behind his legs. "Stay behind me Kyle, just in case."

They drew further in and this time they heard more voices. Anxious. Relieved. Worried. One, however sounded… familiar. Sam.

Dean drew to a stop and grinned. "'Bout friggin' time," he murmured and turned to Kyle. "That's my brother, Kyle, and I think he might've found your family."

"But … but how can you be sure? You said—"

"They can only mimic one voice at a time. That's way too many up ahead." Dean opened the beam up on the flashlight and pointed toward the bend in the cave ahead. "Still, gotta watch our back though. C'mon."

Dean motioned Kyle ahead and they both moved off again, faster now. The closer they got, the more real the words became, more distinguishable. Dean counted at least three separate voices. One was definitely Sam's and it was all he could do not to call out to him.

They were nearly at the opening to the cavern where the voices were echoing in hushed tones. Lights danced about inside where the wendigo had obviously been keeping Kyle's family. Sam was probably right now cutting them down—

"Shit," Dean winced, pressing a hand to his chest.

"What?" Kyle looked at him worriedly.

Dean shook his head, "Just… god, the worst heartburn I've ever had." And yet it was unlike any heartburn he'd ever had. This was a pressure, building deep in his chest until it suddenly started to course through his body. Everything tingled and burned at the same time.

Something dropped from the ceiling. Dean skittered to a halt, at the same time throwing out a protective hand, making sure Kyle was well behind him.

The bulk took shape, knobby knees nearly pencil thin, long arms with tapered fingers hosting razor-like claws, flexing and unfurling, eager for its prey. The wendigo. It wasn't headed for them, though - it was crawling away from them, in the direction they were going.

The cache. Kyle's family. Sam. "Dammit."

Dean quickly grabbed Kyle and pressed the boy back against the cave wall, one finger on his mouth, whispering a quiet, "Ssshhhh…" When Kyle nodded his understanding, Dean looked back to make sure it hadn't heard them, it was still moving toward the voices.

"Wh—?"

Dean shot out his hand and clapped it over Kyle's mouth. Leaning, he whispered close to his ear, "Stay. Very quiet. And stay here."

Before Dean let him go he felt a series of violent shivers race up and down the boy's body. Judging by his large, terror filled eyes, the kid had seen it too – the wendigo that was now walking into the tunnel, just a few yards from where they were. The wendigo that was, for the moment, completely unaware of their presence.

Not yet assured that the kid wouldn't totally freak out, Dean kept his hand in place and leaned in close to Kyle's ear. "Hey," he whispered harshly. The boy looked at him again. "I'm serious. Stay here. Stay quiet. Can you do that for me?"

The abject fear was edged with a kind of trust that Dean hadn't known in a long while. A trust he was damn sure not going to fail. When the boy nodded vehemently, Dean lowered his hand.

The wendigo was still only a few yards away – far too close for Dean's liking, given how fast these things moved – body crouched like it was trying to be… sneaky. For a second Dean couldn't get over how weird a 'sneaky' wendigo looked.

The monster reached out and long razor sharp, claw like nails raked the wall, carving shallow groves into the solid rock. The sound made Dean's side twitched. He knew all too well how that felt – no thankyouverymuch, he did not want a repeat performance of earlier.

Deeming the distance far enough, Dean dropped into his own quiet gait and, after casting one final glace at Kyle to reassure himself the kid stayed put, he followed. Careful to keep his distance, but not far enough to lose sight, he stayed as close to the shadows as he could, nearest the cave wall.

Adrenaline rushed through his body, chasing away the cold. His side still ached abysmally with each step and that damn pressure in his gut was back, though this time with a fiery edge. Dean made a mental note to cut back on those microwave burritos from now on.

Confrontation was eminent and Dean had yet to give any serious thought to the question '_what next?_' when he came face to face with this damn thing. No need, according to Castiel's promises, he had the answer; the_ gift_.

Problem was, there'd been no 'how to' manual, only Castiel's cryptic,_'… When in the presence of a supernatural evil, it will smite it completely…' _to guide him. Well, where the hell had the _gift_ been when bits of Dean's flesh and blood had been dripping off its gnarled claws, he wanted to know?

Before this whole shit-fest had started, but after he'd been unceremoniously plunked down in the middle of nature lover's Hell – somewhere between 'you've got to save the family' and 'why me' – the horse appeared. Dean, hunter of all things evil and eager to kill his ass, momentarily forgot his own name.

It was with the most sickening display of angel awe, complete with sweeping hand flourishes and the exact words, 'fine, noble steed', (which was actually angel code for 'this animal will fuck your ass five times from Sunday' and 'no, we don't like you anymore, Dean'), indicated that this was to be his transportation to the mine.

Gone was the snarky, 'you two need to get a room' and all questions pertaining to specific _gift_ usage had gone south.

Now, here he was, following a monster as it headed toward the cache, toward Kyle's family. Toward Sam, and while Sam likely had both their flare guns, Dean had… bumpkis – aka, the ambiguous _gift_ – and the wendigo, complete with blinding speed and razor-sharp claws, was bearing down on an unsuspecting prey.

Well, not if Dean Winchester had anything to say about it…

Okay, bumpkis wasn't much to work with but he could improvise. Maybe if he got close enough, just before it reached the main cavern, he could distract it. Long enough, hopefully, for Sam to shoot it. It'd be risky—

Without warning the pressure in his gut erupted. A wave of intense, razor-like pain shot up and out, from his stomach to his chest. Dean gasped and stumbled. Dirt and rock scattered and rustled, noisily.

Eyes wide, Dean froze. Licking dry lips he looked up; the creature's back still to him. He watched. Anxiously.

Standing stock still, the wendigo canted his head. Listening. Then its bony shoulders turned, ever so slightly…

"_Fuck,"_ Dean mouthed. Twisting, he slammed his back against the cave wall. Hoping that the darkest shadows swallowed him up.

The wendigo turned sharply. Dean held his breath, hoping he'd been fast enough.

Gaze narrowed in suspicion, body still, its empty eyes moved, searching for the source of the sound. The monster sniffed the air, like it was looking for scent. And waited.

Back pressed to the wall, Dean pushed a hand at his torso. It was like thousands smoldering rivulets coursing through his body. Maybe the ride up, the buffeting he'd received, or maybe the wendigo's claw had done internal damage…

Whatever it was, Dean was well and truly screwed. The bleeding had slowed from the gash in his side; he was able to control his breathing, keeping the grating sound to a minimum, but this? _Sonofabitch…_

After what had seemed like an eternity, the wendigo, with an angry grunt, turned and continued toward its original destination. The fading sound of the creature's snuffles and grunts told Dean as much. He nearly sagged in relief.

Dean out peered cautiously, just to be sure… Edging soundlessly from the darkness he too was on on the move. Following.

The razor-like pain hadn't stopped. If anything it had increased. Dean attributed the increase to the constant movement – it couldn't be good for internal injuries and infections. Forearm drawn tight to his side, he rubbed ineffectually, almost unconsciously at the pain.

It was building. Just below his skin. Like red-hot coals blown about, being fanned to life, lifting and scattering in the wind it moved. Spreading like wildfire on kindling. No longer located only in his torso, it seemed to be moving… everywhere. Spreading. Gaining momentum.

Something triggered in Dean's memory and he almost stopped.

This wasn't the first time he'd felt this… sensation. Two other times he'd felt this, but circumstances had blotted the memory. Now he remembered; both times the wendigo had been close enough for Dean to feel its foul breathe.

Maybe Castiel's heavenly gift was set off by really bad acid reflux?

The hunter shook his head at the thought, almost smiling. He was sweating again; he brushed at the dampness on his forehead. God the fever was making him loopy.

Almost too late he realized he'd gained too quickly on the wendigo, he began to slow –

The earlier sensations, suddenly lurched and twisted. Swirled, drawing down, and coiling in his gut. Dean stopped. Vision blurred, the room tilted but his legs held, locked at the knees.

Without warning the coil of heat exploded. The force rocked him back a step. Deep inside, the angry, hot needles of pain shot out, splintering, angling out in every direction under his skin.

Shaking, Dean bit his tongue, tasting blood as he fought to silence the curse of pain and surprise.

Then, the hot coil became an enormous surge of heat. It knifed through his insides, the intensity excruciating. The edge quickly spreading. Soon it undulated like waves of molten lave crashing beneath flesh and muscle.

So this was what it was like to have your insides melt… Dean though as he bowed his head against the pain. He clutched at his chest, trying to stave off the panic at what this could possibly mean. That's when he noticed his hand.

The burning sensation followed his sight and shot up his forearm and pooled. Through watering eyes, Dean stared at it. The center of his palm was glowing! Pulsing. Turning a deep, angry red.

"The hell…?" Dean breathed. It made his skin sizzle and he hissed at the burn.

Then the pressure hit. And fuck! It hurt!

Unable to help himself he grunted. Gray spots blotted his sight and when his legs gave, he dropped to his knees, gasping. The pain was intense and he gritted his teeth so tight he thought they'd shatter. It was all funneling, twisting inside him, like millions of ants racing under his skin and muscle, infusing his organs.

Too much. The sensation was swallowing him, growing, pulsating. Building with each heartbeat. Pounding out a rhythm all its own. A tsunami crushed his resolve and he cried out in pain. Left him gasping

The _gift_!

"Seriously?" Dean hissed out through his locked jaw. The roaring in his ears was new and growing, like a locomotive pounding in his head.

The sound got louder. Dean looked up and locked eyes with the wendigo. It's mouth open, drool dripped and splattered in the dirt of the cave. Its claws flexed anxiously at its side. The thing let out a shriek so awful Dean felt his skin crawl.

"Ah shit." Well. So much for stealth and distractions.

.

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_To be continued…_

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **

**If all goes well, and life cooperates, the next part should post by Friday. If not, Saturday at the latest. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Betas:** **mad_server** & **ophium**, who is also the birthday girl to whom this was written.

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**PART 6**

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, anxious, barely contained need to shout at the man.

Nathaniel paced around the small cavern, head down, knees bent, never once straightening, choosing instead to sort of crab-walk from one area of ruffled dirt, to the other. The Indian was silent as he moved about, brow drawn in concentration and …bafflement.

They'd moved at a steady pace through the tunnels until this point. Nearly an hour of running, stopping for a quick print read, a clipped discussion, then on again. The signs legible enough to keep them moving.

Until now.

Now, they seemed to be stuck and Nathaniel looked vexed. Sam was both worried and pissed. Deciding he'd waited long enough, Sam had attempted to ask what was wrong, but Nathaniel only answered with a raised hand. A clear request for silence. Sam's jaw had snapped shut audibly.

In an effort to keep from going mad, Sam had decided to have a look around, because truth be told all this standing and not talking was getting on his nerves. Yet, he wanted to give the Indian the time he needed so he tried to pace, only to hear Nathanial growl at him to hold still. Something about mixing his tracks with the others and how that would make things more difficult.

So Sam held still. For the fifth time he glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes now they'd been there. Twenty minutes and they were no closer to finding Dean.

"Dammit," Nathaniel said his jaw tight. He straightened, eyes still cast downward. "This makes no sense at all."

"Ok, man," Sam chimed in, taking his cue from the Indian that the silence was broken. "What the hell?" He felt his gut churn as he realized the most probable explanation for the baffled guide. "You didn't lose the trail…?"

"Yes," Nathaniel sputtered. Sam felt his heart plummet. "And no."

Sam closed his eyes, frustrated. "Nathaniel –"

"I mean." He looked up at Sam, eyes wallowing in disappointment and frustration. "There are _too many_ signs."

"That –" Sam shook his head. "What're you talking about?"

"Look," Nathaniel waved Sam over and pointed with the beam of his flashlight at the depressions in the ground. "Those are the tracks – the ones where it's carrying its prey, right?" Without waiting for acknowledgement, he shifted the beam, indicating more indentations. "Those long, deep striations in the dirt, they're drag tracks Sam and they were made at the same time."

Sam ran this new information through his head, trying to get what it meant. "So," he stared down at the tracks, his jaw ticked at the revelation, "it's got more than one victim." He looked up and caught the sense of self-loathing from the Indian. It practically radiated from him. Sam canted his head, suddenly worried about what he might hear next, but he pressed, "Nathaniel, what else aren't you telling me?"

Nathaniel's face suddenly tightened; he seemed reluctant to continue. "The wendigo's tracks, what it's carrying, the prints aren't as deep, not like before."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning this is not the trail we were following earlier. Meaning, I – that same reluctance was back – meaning I lost that trail."

Sam's mind swirled at the possibilities. "Maybe the person it was dragging…"

Nathaniel was shaking his head. "They're too shallow." He blew out a frustrated sigh. "Sam, from what you described of your brother, given his muscular build and weight, there's not enough depth in these tracks. No, these belong to either a small man or a woman... possibly even–"

"How the –?" Sam started to shout, but stopped when Nathaniel flinched. Running a hand through his hair he turned his back on the guide, trying to regain his composure. They'd lost what was potentially Dean's trail, or so the Indian had said. How the hell…?

"Sam?" Nathaniel's voice was small, hesitant. Full of regret and apology, all wrapped up in one word.

Didn't matter, Sam couldn't bring himself to turn around. Still not sure he wouldn't hit someone, and given Nathaniel was the only 'someone' available, he jammed his fists to his hips, and tried to take a deep breath.

"That's not all," Nathaniel continued. When Sam didn't turn, he seemed fine with talking to his back as he moved to stand by several small indentations in the ground. "These other prints here – they're too small to be either wendigo or Dean's. Sam, these tracks belong to a child."

Sam spun, eyes wide. "What?"

"They're all over the place here," Nathaniel continued as Sam moved to stand next to him, staring at the light the Indian to point out every small indentation in the dirt.

They were plain and perfect, child-sized impressions of sneakers by the looks of it. A tracker of more novice means, Sam knew the truth in the evidence. "Crap."

"Yeah. Crap," the guide said as he too stared down at the footprints. Nathaniel was taking it hard. Leaning against the cave wall, he looked dejected, angry with himself. "I'm sorry. I dunno, I guess I kinda got excited back there and didn't really keep as close an eye to the ground as I should've."

Sam wasn't listening. Instead, he stared at the prints on the ground. Wondered at the child's terror at being able to walk through this hell, watch his or her parent's being dragged off mercilessly, to be consumed like a side of beef. They might or might not have lost Dean for the time being, but there were other victims here and if there was a chance to save them at least…

If Dean were there with them, Sam realized, he'd want this too. So he grabbed the Indian by the sleeve and pulled him over to the mess of tracks about the floor. "Ok, look. If we have to we'll – retrace later, see if we can't pick up that other trail. Right now, let's just work with what we've got here, now. Ok?"

The guide stared quietly at Sam, brooding, eyes darker with the play of light and shadows in the cavern. This roomier section of the mine was just one of the many large junctures, a meeting point in the caves, where all tunnels fed in and branched out in all directions.

Shifting from foot to foot, staring anxiously at the Indian, Sam tried to be patient about the younger man's indecision, but when he continued to sulk, Sam snapped. "Nathaniel!"

Sighing, the guide pushed off the cave wall. "Fine," he said, eyeing the ground, once again studying it.

"Just –" Sam worked to cool the temper flaring in his voice "– just find out which tunnel they headed into and we'll get moving."

It hadn't taken long, though the twenty minutes from earlier was now hitting at forty-five as Nathaniel took his time. Sam thought he knew why too; the guide was still fuming over losing the first trail and wanted to be damn sure this time before they took off.

So, head to the ground, the tracker rounded the small juncture of tunnels, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes serious and searching. The Indian then proceeded to scout each tunnel branch, walking down a few yards, then back. Sam chose to remain at the tunnel entrance, each time adding his flashlight's beam to Nathaniel's but keeping an eye and ear out for the wendigo.

Upon each return, the Indian's face had been a mask of neutrality, until the forth tunnel, that is.

Nathaniel's face was anxious and set with a kind of grim certainty that Sam was almost afraid to ask how the search was going. But, unlike with the previous tunnels, there was also determination and purpose in the guide's face. Sam's hope raised up a notch.

"They came from the south tunnel," Nathaniel supplied, gazing down one tunnel, again indicating it with his light, "and headed that way." He pointed to the tunnel he'd just come from. "It makes sense too…"

"What does?" Sam asked, brow scrunched.

"I'm pretty sure that's the west tunnel and," he swung his light down the tunnel from where the tracks lead, apparently getting his bearings, then back again. "There's a large cavern not far ahead. The mine foreman used to use it to store damaged coal cars until they could be repaired." Nathaniel was looking at Sam now, their eyes saying exactly what both men suspected.

Sam nodded, the implication unspoken. It was a prime location for a wendigo to store its meat. "C'mon," he grabbed the Indian's jacket

The two men edged their way into the west tunnel. Sam, keeping his back to the wall, shuffled sideways and Nathaniel did the same. After a few yards, Sam looked at the guide, face earnest, concerned. "We take this carefully, Nathaniel. Quietly as we can, got it?" The Indian nodded. "Check your weapon and keep it out."

Both men took a moment to check the loads in their weapons and then, after a brief nod, they were off.

Nathaniel stepped away from the wall to keep his gaze alternating from the ground to the darkness up ahead. Sam, jaw tight, not allowing himself to think he'd find anything less than a whole and hale brother – well, a little banged up but, nothing new really – so long as he found him breathing, he could deal with the rest. He hoped.

Sam slowed and Nathaniel matched his reduced speed. Without a word he tapped the Indian and indicated that he extinguished his light. They were then plunged in the darkest shadows as they moved.

Head canted, listening, Sam suddenly flung a hand out to catch Nathaniel as he too skittered to a halt.

Nathaniel stared askance at Sam but Sam simply pointed at his ear. The request was clear and the Indian turned and stared down the tunnel, head tilted.

Sam saw the moment the Indian heard it. He turned and stared at Sam who leaned in close and whispered, "They mimic voices," he reminded. "Stay behind me." Nathaniel bristled; Sam didn't have to see it to know. Waves of indignation pulsated from the younger man. To his credit, however, the Indian dropped back two steps. But no further.

Closer they could see the void, a shadow deeper and darker than the rest. The cavern Nathaniel had indicated. This time, though, the whimpering was a soft spoken voice... "It'll … be alright," the woman's voice calmed, soft but painfilled. "M-Maggie, just… honey…"

"Mommy…" a smaller voice snuffled. "I'm c-c-cold."

That was enough for Sam and he sprung forward, flashlight on but pointing down. He heard Nathaniel rush ahead with him as they rounded the corner into the cavern.

There was a momentary gasp of shock. Then realization and the woman's voice, sobbing, "Oh... Oh my g-god…" she was hanging from a beam, arms bound above her head. Long black hair in tatters, clothes not in much better shape, her voice broke as she pleaded, "Help….h-h-help us…please."

Sam stared, relief and disappointment coursing through him. Next to the woman was an unconscious man, medium length brownish hair hung in tangled disarray, framing his downturned face, wrists bound above his head, secured just like the woman.

Dean was nowhere in sight and his absence left Sam bitter and angry. Only the man, woman and child, the latter a mess of white-blond hair, the shade visible even in the layers of dirt, blue eyes wide and terrified, she stared back at Sam, trying to make herself smaller against the cave wall.

Nathaniel was first to move. Stepping around Sam, the flare gun jammed back in his jacket pocket, a knife was in his hand as he moved first toward the woman.

"No," she whined piteously, "my husband first. He hasn't moved in hours."

Nathaniel seemed to hesitate at this. Sam put an end to the argument. "Mame' I don't think your daughter will let us anywhere near her. It's best we get you down first so you can see to her. That'll give us…"

Sam canted his head, sentence trailing off. "You hear that?" Slowly, he turned to look at the exit.

The woman was down, Nathaniel had been in the process of carefully removing the ropes from her damaged wrists then he too froze. "Yea, sounds like… like a… tornado."

Then, a god-awful growl, more like a shriek cut into the sound. A sound Sam knew too well. Wendigo.

A voice cut in, "_DEAN!_" one he didn't recognize, high pitched and panicked.

"Kyle?" the woman asked, her voice weak.

"_Ah shit._" another voice growled.

Sam whispered, "Dean."

It was strained, grating but that was the voice he'd waited to hear; ached to hear. And it had echoed off the not so distant walls outside the cavern.

On autopilot Sam lurched forward, then caught himself. Twisting he held Nathaniel's gaze, eyes begging for permission he didn't really need.

Nathaniel, his arms wrapped around the woman's shoulders, nodded at him. "Go!"

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"Dean!" Kyle shouted.

In addition to the deafening cacophony of sound, a sudden gust slammed into Dean, buffeting him, nearly knocking him back. Stubbornly he held, leaning into the swirling wind.

Dean ground his teeth against the continued onslaught of pain. Eyes boring into the creature across from him he fought against the mounting agony from the heat and pressure that seemed determined to collide with his very mortality.

Suddenly, the wave, the heat, the pressure, it gathered enormous force and began racing toward his arms, like a million snakes, ignited and slithering, searching for an exit. Dean growled, desperate to ride out the sensation that was destined to drive him insane.

"What's happening?" Kyle shouted from his left. The boy was at his side, kneeling next to him, eyes wild and uncertain.

Dean knew a moment of real panic and he looked anxiously at the wendigo. "Get ba-back t-to your h-hiding sp-spot," he gritted out, the pain nearly impossible to talk around.

"No!" Kyle yelled. Dean blinked over at him. "I-I'm scared!"

Ok, scratch that. The roaring sound was not just in his head, it was all around them. Even Kyle was affected as he covered his ears, staring at Dean for answers. The wind too, it kicked up the boy's hair, twisted and flipped his dark locks.

There was something else; Kyle was sweating. The heat. A sudden panicked thought struck Dean in that moment. This was it! The goddamn weapon that Castiel had told him about. And he had no frigging control over it.

Glaring at the wendigo, Dean reached blindly for Kyle's arm and shoved him away. "G'back Kyle" he roared. He couldn't risk the boy being too near when whatever was going to happen, happened.

On hands and knees now, panting, Dean watched as the wendigo walked slowly toward him. Beady, lifeless eyes caught on the miniscule light in the cave, turning an eerie red. Low guttural growls cut through the noise in his head.

It jerked, moved forward a pace, covered half the distance then stopped. Dean blinked in surprise. No matter how long he lived (and if this day got much worse, that wouldn't be long at all) he'd never get used that. It moved another inch closer then stopped, drool falling from its open maw. It was playing with him.

"Anyone ever tell you," Dean shouted over the deafening roar, one hand clutching his abdomen, the other fisted as much dirt as it would hold as he slowly working his way back to his feet, "'s not polite t'play with your food?"

That decide the monster. It lunged at Dean.

It all seemed to happen at the same time, rapid fire, and yet so slowly that it was like each event happened in a lifetime of its own.

Airborne, the wendigo's scream rent the cave walls. Its face triumphant, menacing, greedily knowing that its prey was done in.

Timing it perfectly, Dean instinctively, threw out the hand full of dirt. The moment his fingers opened, the burning tendrils, the snakes beneath his skin suddenly found their opening. In an explosion of epic pain they surged and swarmed, the pressure propelling them toward his outstretched hand.

Dean shouted himself hoarse as his elbow locked, unable to withdraw.

The sound roared louder, the wind buffeted harder, and in a sudden burst of light, he felt sure his hand would rip open as they exploded. And Dean's eyes grew wide as flames, not dirt, shot out of his extended palm.

A ball of fire slammed into the wendigo with the force of a rocket, sending it back several yards. It stumbled along the dirt floor before coming to a complete stop.

Except for the consuming fire and the crackling flesh, the silence in the cave was nearly deafening. Eyes wide, Dean stared at the wendigo. For a moment, the creature was too stunned to notice.

Then it looked down at the flame; rapidly it spread, racing upward, across its chest. It knew.

Head back, arms flung wide, the wendigo shrieked. Flames quickly consumed his dry brittle flesh and bones, fast, like a match to dry kindling. The wendigo wilted to the cave floor and in a matter of seconds it was reduced to a small mound of glowing coals and embers, the odd hair igniting, sizzling out to the ends before shriveling and going out.

"Dean!" Sam's voice shouted over the explosion of sound.

Above the glow of the wendigo's remains, Dean locked eyes with Sam. It seemed surreal for a moment but he was jogging toward him, flare gun in one hand, flashlight beam pointed at the coals, worry and concern in his tight face.

"Heya Sammy," Dean grinned, the glow of the fleshy coals illuminating his bloody, dirt-covered face.

Not taking his eyes off his brother, Sam moved around the mound of burning wendigo, eager to reach his side. Because, even from this distance he could hear the rattle of fluid in his chest, could see the struggle it was to breath, the deep seeded lines of exhaustion and the sudden sway that meant only one thing...

"See that? I'm like…friggin'" he coughed, feeling weak and unsteady, "Firestarter, the human torch... which makes you the invisible wom–"

This time he was unable to stop it. It was damn hard to breath and the coughing fit was tearing his chest apart. His knees buckled, eyes watered. The world narrowed and grayed as exhaustion and fatigue sent him angling toward the ground.

"Hey." Two strong, familiar hands caught and lowered him carefully to the ground. Sam's voice wavered around him, over him. "I gotcha."

While more voices floated around him - Sam's, Kyle's and others he didn't know - both images and sounds started to fade. Through it all, one thing was clear: they'd finally managed to save the day.

Dean grinned as the thought filled his hazy mind. "Finally..." and his world went black.

.

.

_To be continued…_

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**Author's Notes:**

It's 12:21 a.m. Sunday here in I'm 21 minutes late in getting this up by Saturday. But, it's likely still Saturday _some_where. Right?

Ah well, one more chapter, because Castiel has a lot to answer for, don't you think? I think. Look for the last part to be up on Wednesday.

Comments are welcome.


	7. Chapter 7

**Betas:** **mad_server** & **ophium**, who is also the birthday girl to whom this was written.

Just a reminder, this fic is set in Season 4, so Sam girls? Please don't kill me *hides*.

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**.**

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**~*The Gift*~**

**~Part 7~**

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Given Dean's condition, and the unexpected addition of Kyle and his family, the Jeep was ruled out as their sole return vehicle. So, Nathaniel raced to the exit and after a call on his satellite phone, help from the Willow Creek Ranch had been promptly dispatched.

Working carefully, Sam and Nathaniel moved the Coleman's and Dean closer to the exit, but just back enough and off to the side to remain out of the elements, but close enough to the exit to have a fire for light and to heat water to tend wounds.

It had felt like forever, knee deep in worry and fear over his brother's worsening condition, but the call finally came. Nathaniel's voice echoed down the tunnel from his place at the mine's entrance as he shouted, excitedly, "They're here!"

Sam nearly crumbled with relief, the sensation nearly making sob. Still stroking the cooling cloth over Dean's fevered brow he bent and whispered, "Hear that? We're getting out of here. Gonna get you to a hospital."

Sweat dotted lids lifted, and Dean looked at him through pain glazed eyes. He swallowed and gritted out, "'K, S-Sam-my." The words cost him in strength and his eyes closed, riding out another wave of pain that left him shaking harder.

Sam looked up – eyes anxiously searching the direction this so called 'help' would come from. _What the hell was taking so long…?_ He was torn between maintaining his vigil at Dean's side, and getting out there and making hurry the hell up.

"I'll sit with your brother if you need to go." Sam turned to see Emily Coleman, Kyle's mom, walk carefully toward him.

Just behind her, Greg Coleman was propped against a rock, pale and in pain, looked on with glassy, bloodshot eyes. Setting his leg had been… horrific for all of them, but at least the bone no longer protruded and the makeshift splint was holding. Cara, their daughter, lay curled in at his side, a blanket tucked around them both as he nodded, echoing his wife's offer.

When Emily Coleman gently took the strip of cloth from Sam, dipped it and ran it across Dean's forehead and neck, Sam breathed a quick, "Thanks," and took off toward the exit.

The weather conditions Sam found at the mine's entrance brought Sam to a stumbling halt. The freezing rain and sleet had given way to snow. Not just snow but a blizzard of near white-out intensity. Sam had to squint across the clearing to see the two large Hummer's roll to a stop.

Pulling to a stop, ranch owner, Hank Culver and Pete Hankins – the same 'Pete' who'd thought it hilarious that Sam had taken any advice from Devlin – piled out of the first one. When the second vehicle rolled to a stop, three men jumped out who were immediately met by Hank. Barking orders, the men moved quickly to comply, pulling equipment and boxes from the back of the SUV's

Pete, with a large plastic kit in hand jogged toward Sam where he came to a stop. "Well?"

Sam didn't reply, just looked over Pete's head, staring at the swirling, driving snow. On top of all that, it was getting dark. Going down was going to be slow, arduous task.

"Sam!" Pete snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face. "Son, we're burnin' daylight. Show me where they are."

Sam nodded and turned to lead the way.

The rest happened in a flurry of activity as Pete, after completing a quick but efficient triage, deemed Dean the most serious case, followed by Mr. Coleman.

The two were then piled high with blankets, strapped to stretchers and loaded into the two large vehicles. With the Coleman's in Hummer and Dean, Sam and Pete in the other, Nathaniel took the Jeep with another of the hands and within minutes the vehicles were on their way back down Widow's Peak.

Worry for his brother consumed most of his thoughts, but Sam felt every terrifying tilt, every sideways dip, the constant downward descent of the vehicle. In that moment he admitted; as scary as the trip up had been, it was nothing compared to the trip down. Though, with Dean feverishly mumbling and lashing out every few minutes, he had his hands full keeping him calm enough for Pete to work on him.

Dean had thrashed feverishly while Pete tended him. IV's were hung, vitals checked, and syringes inserted into the various ports as a valiant attempt was made to stabilize him amidst the jostling and rocking of the moving vehicle.

Sam, anxious to make himself useful, grabbed gauze from the nearest kit, intent on wiping at the blood on Dean's head-wound. A hand covered his before the gauze could make contact.

"I got this," Pete said insistently. The look in his eyes wasn't exactly uncaring, but it certainly was uncompromising. "Just sit tight," he said, taking the gauze from the younger Winchester.

Sam bristled. There earlier encounter at the ranch notwithstanding, Sam knew professionalism when he saw it, and, most importantly, knew Dean needed it. So, he swallowed his ire and sat back, though he still stayed close to his side of the stretcher, close to Dean.

"Don't take it personal," Hank spoke evenly, twisting in the passenger seat. Apparently he'd witnessed Sam's reaction. "Pete was a medic in the Army. Man knows what he's doing. Though, he gets a might possessive of his supplies and his patients."."

Sam tossed a look at the ranch owner, then sulked back, quietly, "Still doesn't give him the right to be an ass."

Hank chuckled, "No, no it don't. Same goes for me too. Guess if I'd've believed you more, I would've sent ya'll up in one of these and with more than one man."

That may have been true, but Sam knew he'd been less than truthful in his plea's to reach the mine. Watching Pete work over his brother, he decided to say nothing at all.

Legs bent, elbows resting on his knees, Sam stared down at his hands. "I know Pete's helping but…we've been taking care of one another for a lot of years. Even before our Dad died, it was just us." Sam looked at Dean. "Mostly him taking care of me and I thought I'd lost him a few months back..."

"Sam!" Pete barked, and Sam was at his side in an instant. "We gotta get his fever down if we can." Pulling at the thread to draw another stitch tight in Dean's side, without looking up, he indicated a blue case in one corner. "There are cool-packs in the kits. Get those out and place…"

Sam was already in motion. He pulled several cool packs out, broke the seals in each to activate the chemicals and placed two in every major arterial point of Dean's inert form. That done, he grabbed a clean white cloth, doused it with the contents of a water bottle and gently pressed it against Dean's brow, frowning as he felt the heat of Dean's skin radiating through the layers of dirt, blood and cool cloth..

So focused on his brother, Sam missed the look Pete and Hank shared as he worked. Didn't matter, he wasn't leaving Dean's side again. Period. Pete could kiss his –

The vehicle did a sudden, stomach turning jerk, then dipped.

On instinct, Sam shot both hands out and draped across Dean's body. Grabbing the other side of the stretcher he held tight to keep his brother from rolling off. It was pure reaction because he knew full well the stretcher was anchored to the bottom of the vehicle, and Dean was strapped in.

The Hummer finally righted – as much as the steep downward angle would provide, that is – the vehicle, though still tipped harrowingly downward, resumed its scary descent.

It wasn't until all three vehicles were on more horizontal ground, making the last few miles to the ranch that Pete actually motioned Sam over to where he and Hank were talking. Sam, after replenishing the cooling cloth, replaced it over Dean's too-warm forehead and scooted over.

"Near as I can tell," Pete said pulling off the soiled rubber medical gloves – Sam swallowed, that was all Dean's blood – "your brother's suffering from some kind of respiratory distress, complicated by blood loss, both from that wound in his side and another on his upper thigh. Also, judging from the striation of the tissue surrounding the oblique cut, it's infected, which is a key component to his fever, I'm sure."

Sam nodded. "But he'll be alright?" It was both a question and a statement and Sam hated the uncertainty of it.

"I'm no doctor Sam. Just giving you the facts as I see'm." Dismissing Sam, Pete looked at Hank. "Doc gonna make it to the ranch?"

Hank nodded. "Nona'll be there." At Sam's puzzled look, he explained, "Doctor Nona Bullock's been our family doc for years. One of the hands left the ranch to get her when we started back down."

It was dark by the time they reached the ranch. In a plethora of activity, the injured were taken to the first floor, west wing of the vast ranch house, those able following closely behind. The Coleman family was taken to a room at the end of the hall, while Sam followed closely, the men carrying Dean's stretcher to another room nearby.

The moment he walked in he jerked to a stop, a whistle of awe slipping past his lips. Just as Hank had said, the room was indeed set up like a small, big-city clinic with heart rate monitors, IV caddy's, BP cuffs, shelves full of bandage and meds, the titles he couldn't read from this distance.

Over the years, between the ranch's proximity to the nearest hospital, which was not very near at all, and the inclement weather conditions that often made travel impossible, Pete had been the one to insist on certain rooms being well equipped and stocked with medical supplies.

With Pete in the other room seeing to Kyle's family, Sam helped Hank's wife – Jenny, a handsome woman for her age with kindly blue eyes and grey infused, medium length dark hair – get Dean situated. Once Pete arrived, however, things got… contentious.

The former army medic insisted, in no uncertain terms, that Sam leave. Sam, to his credit, tried reason, maintaining that he'd taken care of his brother in far worse condition – yeah, because why in hell would they believe that? – but when Pete didn't budge, anger and frustration, colored by his own flagging energy levels, rose.

Arms crossed, feet planted, Sam was ready to dig in, ready to throw punches if need be – and boy did he want to. This yahoo had done little but smirk at him when he'd first arrived and pleaded his case with Hank – albeit on less than truthful terms, but still…

No sooner had Sam's hands curled to fists than Jenny stepped up close, crowding him. "Sam," her gentle voice pleaded. Brought back to himself, Sam looked at her small hand pressed to his chest and realized he was backing up.

Fine, he'd fight her too, goddammit, but not without fair warning. "Mrs. Culv– " he started, but when he looked into her eyes; they held nothing but kindness and understanding. He crumbled.

"None of this will help your brother," she continued. "Why don't you go with Annie. She'll take you to a room, someplace you can shower and change. Get something warm in you to eat and drink. When you get back, maybe we'll have some word."

Nearly at the door and surprised to find himself there, cast off by Jenny's mere presence, he glanced at the maid. Annie stood patiently waiting in the hallway, waiting. It was still in him to balk at all this, but instead he shot a last worried gaze at Dean and saw that Pete was already hard at work, checking IV's, checking his side. Then at Jenny, he nodded and followed Annie without incident.

Sam returned not twenty minutes later, admittedly feeling better for his shower and change of clothes. Purposefully he stormed down the hall, a full head of steam and every intention of clocking Pete if he needed to in order to see his brother.

About to grip the door knob, a ruckus on the stairs drew his attention. Annie, chattering ceaselessly directed two men as they wrestled a small sofa up into the hall and set it just across from Dean's room. The two men tipped their hats at the maid and left directly.

She sat two colorful blankets on the back of the furniture and looked at Sam, "The doctor arrived moments ago – the ride here was treacherous – and she's in there now. I can't stop you but I know the Culver's are only trying to help. They're good people." And without another word, she left.

It was all he could do to not open that door, the control was, in fact, nothing short of herculean, but under her veiled plea for patience, Sam sighed. And began pacing. There were exactly, he noted, twelve steps between the top of the stairs and the door to Dean's room.

Each turn and subsequent return, drained more steam until he plopped down onto the sofa, which he assumed was brought in for him. The padded cushions, while soft, did little to sooth his agonized thoughts. He rubbed wearily at his eyes, realizing for the first time how tired he was. Lack of sleep for the last 24 hours was starting to take its toll.

Elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his palms, the minutes ticked by. The quiet murmuring behind the door offered no discernable information and soon, coupled with lack of sleep served as background noise… the hall clock beating off the vocal cadence…

"Hey Sam."

Sam's head snapped up. "Kyle. Um…" He rubbed his palms on his jeans a little embarrassed at having been caught dozing. "How's your family?"

Sam tensed and waited. Kyle had seen Dean shoot fire out of his hand and kill the wendigo; it was only natural he'd have questions. Hell, Sam was still a bit unclear on that one himself, though if he had to guess it would have something to do with Castiel – Castiel who had yet to put in an appearance since they'd returned from that damned mountain…

Showered and wearing clean clothes, his minor cuts and visible bruises having been attended to, Kyle looked better. However there was no hiding the lines of exhaustion etched around his brown eyes.

The entire time they were being transported down the mountain, it was plain to see that the boy'd been dividing his worry between his family and Dean. Obviously, Dean and Kyle had bonded during their ordeal and the kid's worry was as palpable as Sam's own.

Shrugging small shoulders, Kyle sank into the chair next to Sam. "They're sleeping. 'Cept for Dad's," he paused to yawn, "broken leg, they're not hurt bad. Pete gave them sedatives, said they'll be fine." He snuggled down into the seat, head resting on the armrest.

Nodding, "That's good to hear," Sam just looked at the door to the room where Dean was ensconced.

"Hw's Dean?" Kyle's voice slurred.

"I dunno." Sam shook his head, his eyes not leaving the door. "I guess the doctor arrived whi –" the sound of soft snores interrupted and Sam looked over. Kyle was sound asleep.

A soft smile pulled at Sam's lips. He reached back and tugged one of the large afghans Annie'd brought, set it folded on his lap. That done, he gently pulled the exhausted boy over and rested his head comfortably against the folded blanket, then he shook out the other to cover them both. Carefully, not wanting to disturb Kyle, he sank further into his own side, making them both more comfy.

The earlier nod-off was nothing compared to this time as Sam's head dropped back and his side nestled more comfortably into the crook of the sofa. Sound asleep, both his and Kyle's soft snores could be heard down the hall.

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Someone was shaking him, a voice calling from far away. With another particularly hard shake, the voice got closer and Sam's eyes snapped open. "What?!" he shouted, catapulting forward.

"Easy son," Hank soothed. He could see Sam hadn't yet checked in with the real world and waited for him to appear more focused. "You with me now?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair, trying desperately to remember where he was, what was going on. "What…"

"We kinda need your help with your brother." Hank's face looked tense. Sam's concern meter pegged.

"Dean?" Sam shot to his feet. "He alright? What's wrong?"

Even as he spoke, Sam was shoving Hank aside; in three long strides he reached the entrance to the room. Behind him, Hank was still talking but Sam heard Dean's voice even before he pushed the door open and he'd not be put off again.

Dean was standing – well, more like leaning – with his back to the corner, his feverish eyes rolling anxiously between Jenny and another woman, brandishing a needle threateningly in front of him, warding them off. The one woman Sam didn't recognize held a syringe in one hand – obviously the doctor.

"I said no, dammit!" Dean wheezed, struggling to pull in his next breath. If it was possible he sounded worse than when they'd first arrived. "Now b-back the hell off!" It was clear in the way his body swayed and his eye drooped that he was going to face-plant at any moment, but it was also clear he was determined not to go down without a fight.

Sam had to do something. "Dean!"

The moment Dean's wide-eyed gaze hit Sam, the tension seemed to drain from him, just a little. "Oh thank god…" He sagged visibly. "Sammy, you tell'm…" he panted, small coughs erupting between words, "to back off."

"What the hell's going on here?" Sam demanded of the doctor as he moved quickly to Dean's side. The older Winchester cornered the market in stubborn determination but it was fading fast and a face-first meeting with the floor was inevitable – Sam would be there to catch him. The bandied needle, to him, was more something to be questioned than feared.

"He woke, asked – no, demanded food. I told him now wasn't a good time and he got very agitated. I was going to sedate him."

"No. You're," Dean tried to shout but it came out raspy and quickly dissolved into a fit of hard coughs, "t-trying to kill me!"

"Hey, hey," Sam murmured, rubbing gently at Dean's back, "you gotta calm down." Not once, even caught up in coughs that pulled agonizingly at his side, did Dean take his eyes off the 'enemy' in the room. Noticing this, Sam turned and waved them back.

Jenna complied easily and moved to stand next to Hank at the door, but the doctor hesitated. After Sam glared she moved off to stand next to Mrs. Culver. Sam turned back to Dean. "Okay," he soothed, "it's just me, man, alright?"

Out of his periphery, Sam saw Pete join Hank in the doorway; the increased stress in his brother's back muscles told him the precise moment Dean had seen them too. _Right,_ Sam thought, knowing what his brother was thinking, _more muscle to take down a recalcitrant patient._

Sam turned on them the new arrivals next. "Just, let me handle this." Hank nodded and Pete seemed inclined to do whatever the older man did. For now.

Turning back to his brother he did a strong double take. Blood dripped from the back of Dean's hand, leaving red puddles on the floor.

"Dean… what –" Sam gently took Dean's wrist in hand and turned it, determined to inspect the source. Ripped, torn flesh, oozed blood near a mangled puncture at the center. Sam's eyes trailed to the needle still clutched in Dean's hand, fingers white; it was his own IV catheter. "Did you – my god did you tear this out of your hand?"

"Had to." He had to stop, take a moment to breath. "…hungry… they said no." Dean rubbed at his midsection with his free hand. "They're… killing me."

"Dean," Sam started, and just as quickly stopped. Wanting to be sure this wasn't delirium talking, or something else, he gazed carefully at Dean's eyes. Finding them glassy but focused enough he continued, "They're not going to k–"

The needle suddenly forgotten, dropped to the floor as Dean fisted Sam's shirt and pinned him to the wall, crowding him. "Listen –" he struggled through the grating sound of his lungs. "I'm not h-hallucinating. I'm _hungry_."

Sam's brow furrowed, he opened his mouth to say more but this time he looked at his brother closely. Really studied him.

Over the years, Sam had tended his brother, wounded and lost in the throes of delirium. He'd listened and felt his brother's anguish as he'd called for Dad, pleaded for him return, or whimpered the lament of a scared four year old that'd witnessed the horrific death of his Mother, pinned to a ceiling by unspeakable evil. Adding to it all had been Dean's plagued sleep where memories of Hell Hounds rent his flesh anew. Then, Hell itself. And Alistair. Asleep, Sam had seen all the emotions Dean would never willingly show when he was conscious or on steady ground.

This wasn't fever talk. This… Dean's eyes were totally earnest. Lucid. Guileless. "Dean… what?"

"'S that damn gi–," Dean sagged; only his hold on Sam's shirt and Sam's quick hand to Dean's elbow, kept him upright. His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, "…the fire. I – it... it… it used something up in me. Feel empty. Like after a –" he coughed harshly, "hard w-workout. I… _need_ f-food."

That was more than enough for Sam. Clutching his brother's shoulders as he continued to fall, Sam helped him while he coughed and stumbled back to the bed.

Once Dean was horizontal, Sam heard someone move up behind him. Stiffening, he turned, ready to take up Dean's fight. "Stay back."

Nona stood in front, Jenny just behind her. "Excuse me?" The doctor stared in disbelief.

"Jenny." Sam ignored the doctor, looking at the ranch owner's wife. "Do you have anything that might be easy for him to eat?"

Before she could answer, the doctor interjected. "Your brother is fighting off a very serious infection _and_ pneumonia, though without x-rays I can't confirm. The combination has already is left him nauseous on more than one occasion. He threw up once before I arrived and twice more since I've been here."

Jenny nodded. "Dr. Bullock's right, Sam. First time happened not long after I persuaded you to leave. Pete can confirm," she said looking at Pete who nodded in agreement. Her eyes were full only of concern as she added, "It was excruciating for him, Sam."

"The coughing is hard enough on the stitches," Dr. Bullock added. "There are twenty-eight in his side, not counting the twelve subcutaneous. He's fortunate not to have torn them already. I don't advise he eat anything 'til we can get the fever under control and stabilize him more. If I can just get that IV back in his hand –"

"Saaaam..." Dean croaked a weak warning. The grating sound in his lungs grew louder with his increased agitation.

"His breathing is far too labored, Sam," Dr. Bullock continued. "I need to start him on some oxygen."

Sam placed a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, all the while keeping his eye on the room's occupants. Hank and Pete were now inside the doorway, though thankfully not much closer. This was inches from getting out of hand quick.

"Just –" Sam tried, this time including the doctor in his request. "Just, give us this, please." He looked pleadingly at Jenny. "What if we keep it simple, maybe some broth and crackers –"

"What?!" Dean tried for indignant, but it came out sounding more like a bullfrog with strep throat, chased rapidly with a serious of deep, rattling coughs.

Sam patted Dean's shoulder but kept talking to the rancher's wife, eyeing Hank too. "Just – let's try, please? For now? If he can't keep it down, fine. Nothing more. Deal?" Dean groaned behind him, in obvious objection to the conditions of this 'deal'.

Dean held down three bowls of broth – though it took Sam to steady the cup as he drank – and an entire tube of saltines before allowing Dr. Bullock anywhere near him. Opening and closing his eyes, determined to stave off the demands for sleep, Dean eyed her warily. Sam almost smiled at how the doctor tried not to show fear – Dean's stormy gaze was practically legend and he was giving it with both barrels – as she carefully bandaged the old site and started a new IV.

Sam saw his struggle to remain a wake continue and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Relax. I got this." Dean nodded groggily, but there was no mistaking the trust in his eyes as they closed, his head digging deep into his pillow.

In a protective stance, arms crossed over his chest, Sam gazed defiantly at each of the room's occupants. "I really appreciate all that you've done for my brother and for me. I'll be staying here with him 'til he's stronger." The doctor opened her mouth and Sam interrupted, "Feel free to check on him for meds or vitals, but I'll call you if I think there's any emergency."

Hank, Jenny and Pete filed out of the room, but not before Dr. Nona Bullock requested and was granted one more, quick reexamination of the patient. Checking his breaths, she carefully placed the nasal canola over his head – he'd long since fallen asleep so there was no longer the 'death stare' to contend with – then after checking to make sure the broad spectrum antibiotics were once again flowing freely through his system, she straightened.

There was no further reason for her to stay, but the doctor looked reluctantly, first at her patient then at Sam. The younger brother had made it very clear he'd let them know if Dean's condition warranted her further attention.

Dr. Bullock sighed, finally accepting it was her turn to exit. "Use the sponge and that cool water to keep his fever down." As if Sam needed to be told that, but he nodded anyway, curtly. "I'll be up every thirty minutes to check on him but if you need me –"

"I got it," Sam interrupted. "Thanks."

With a nod she too disappeared and the door was closed.

Sam listened intently. When he heard the footfalls and voices in the hall fade, he breathed a sigh of relief. Turning he approached his brother's bedside and sank into a chair Jenny had pulled over for him, ready to take up a bedside vigil, as he'd done so many times before in their years as hunters.

Dean looked pale against the pile of blankets, his forehead bathed in sweat. Sam picked up the sponge and wrung out the excess, carefully pressing it to Dean's fevered brow. The rise and fall of his brother's chest and what should be restful exhales, sounded more like a saw grinding through thick timber. Sam swallowed his concern.

Several passes of the sponge later, the room cast in low light, Sam felt the heavy press of exhaustion from the physical and mental demands of the day. The brief nod in the hall hadn't been near enough and his body demanded down-time.

The doctor had come in twice in the last hour, checking vitals, adjusting meds, then she'd left. The room was once again awash in the soft noises of the blood pressure cuff going off at automatic intervals, the oxygen tanks softly providing needed relief to Dean's over taxed lungs.

In those quiet moments, Sam, sitting in the plush chair close to Dean's bedside, grasped his brother's hand firmly, telling himself it was just to be sure he woke if Dean started, and lay his head on the mattress. Within seconds he drifted off in a sound slumber, remembering fondly a time, so long ago...

_._

~*~

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_Sam shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, eyes wide and filled with want as he stared at the gleaming glass jar, surrounded by others, high atop the shelf. He knew better than to ask, but it didn't stop his mouth from salivating with want at the sight of the sugary treat, one so rarely ever afforded him._

_It was one of those old fashioned drugstores, complete with marble floors, stools with shiny metal bases pushed under a heavy granite bar complete with silver soda fountains arching high above the counter. Pretty as all of it was, Sam had his eye on one thing only; the shiny clear jars full of candy._

_There were dozens of them, full of every kind of sweet confection imaginable, but Sam only had eyes for the contents in one jar; the red licorice._

_The clerk suddenly appeared behind the mountain of glass, grinned down at Sam and plucked the jar of red licorice off the stair-stepped stand. Sam's eyes widened and as the clerk, who'd tossed him a kindly wink, disappeared with the jar, his shoulders dropped. Oh well, it had been a silly thing to want anyway._

"_Sammy!" Dean's voice barked across the marble floors and shiny silver fountain heads. _

_Sam turned and jogged toward the door as Dean held it open, the bell on the door chiming their exit. They walked no more than ten steps when a white bag appeared in front of Sam's face. He looked questioningly at Dean._

"_Dude," Dean shook the bag insistently, "if you don't take it, I'm going to eat it myself."_

_Sam stared back at the white bag still clutched in Dean's hand. Shyly he took it, unfurled the folded top and peered inside. Red licorice ropes._

"_But," Sam flustered, staring down at the candy, "Dean, Dad'll –"_

"_Dad's not here. And besides, I'm in charge, remember?" Dean glared. But when Sam's eyes still pleaded for understanding, Dean's softened and he shrugged. "Consider it a birthday present. Now, can we please go? It's colder'n a witch's titty in a brass bra out here." And Dean was stalking away._

_Sam grinned at Dean's retreating back. Then, he crammed a hand into the bag to fish out a thick red whip, licked his lips once more and crammed the end joyfully into his mouth. Smiling around the candy he ran to catch up with his brother, knowing two things for sure; one, it wasn't his birthday, but Dean's was next week, and two, Dean didn't have a candy bag of his own. He carried only the plastic bag with the supplies that Dad had indicated on the list he'd left. _

_Reaching his brother's side quickly, their shoulders brushing as they walked easily, Sam fished out another rope and offered it to Dean. Sam didn't miss the hesitant flicker in his eye._

_When Sam didn't relent, only shaking the candy insistently Dean said, "But I got it for you."_

"_But you didn't get anything for yourself." _

"_Nah," Dean huffed with a wave of his hand. "Candy's for kids."_

"_You're only twelve, Dean." Dean didn't respond, shaking his head, he just walked faster. Sam came to a stop, studying his brother's notched up shoulders._

"_Move those short legs, would'ja?" he called over his shoulder. "I don't wanna miss Starsky and Hutch."_

_It was just like his big brother to deflect kindness with attitude. As an adult, Sam came to know it as a boy who'd had to grow up too fast, take on too much. As a child, it made Sammy want to understand him more so he ran up, got in front of Dean, forcing him to stop. Dean looked down at him and Sam held up the licorice whip again, "Please?"_

_Dean hesitated; he studied Sam's pleading eyes then rolled his own and sighed. "God, you're a pill." Sam only smiled as Dean took the rope. Satisfied, Sam grinned and fell in line next to his big brother as they continued. Canting his head, he watched as Dean forced the end of the candy into his mouth and chewed. Slowly. _

_After minutes of silence Dean looked down at Sam, who was still grinning. The older Winchester angled one shoulder down and bumped Sam's saying, "girl."_

_  
It wasn't until five years later when Sam discovered Dean's hesitation had been due to the fact that he hated red licorice._

_._

~*~

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"He will wake every two hours," a familiar voice cut in.

Sam's head jerked up, the dream long forgotten. The sponge flipped out of his hand and the chair nearly toppled as he bolted to his feet. Blinking rapidly he fought to dispel the last dregs of sleep from his mind.

Castiel stood on the other side of Dean's bed, staring down at him, concern and curiosity moving in equal measure across his face.

"He'll know when his body requires more." Castiel's gaze flicking around the room. He was either unaware or unconcerned at the waves of radiant anger emitting from the younger Winchester. "The sustenance is necessary for him to gain back that which the gift consumed."

"Damn you, Castiel." Sam kicked the chair out of his way to stalk around the bed, hands knotted into fists at his side. "I'm going to –"

Sam pulled back –_going to_–_ what, exactly?_ he found himself wondering. Hands flexing in anger he knew what he wanted to do; wrap his hands around the angle's neck and squeeze all that superiority out of him. But, it wouldn't really be the angel's neck that he'd be squeezing, would it? Just the vessel, just the meat he was wearing, just like the demons.

That was it, he realized. In the end, that was exactly what Dean was to them. A piece of meat, a puppet that they could play with and toss into the most dangerous and outrageous situations, just to see him dance.

In the moment that Sam passed crushing his fingers inside his fisted hands, Castiel had moved soundlessly towards the head of the bed were Dean slept.

"You are angry." The angel's murmured quietly. Castiel was next to Dean's bed, staring studiously down at his sleeping brother before lifting his gaze to Sam.

"Hell yeah, I'm angry!" Sam sputtered loudly. Dean tossed and murmured something and Sam hesitated, waited until he stilled once more before continuing. This time he lowered his voice and whispered harshly, teeth gritted, "What'd you expect? Your little _gift_, your mission, it nearly got my brother killed!"

"The effects of the _gift_ were…" Castiel lowered his gaze to Dean, and finished, "unexpected. Once his energy levels are replenished, he will sleep a more deep, healing sleep for more extended times."

Sam suddenly understood the earlier problem... "So why he woke up half starved…" Dean had seemed to know this, though hadn't said so in quite the same way. No surprise; it had been all he could do to stay upright. "You told him this…?"

The angel nodded. "In a dream. Yes." He looked truly contrite as he added, "I had not taken into account the fragile state of human physiology when I instilled the _gift_ in him. For that I apologize."

"What – _just_ for that?" Sam sputtered, eyebrows arched in astonishment. "How about for sending him on some treacherous climb on the back of a horse in the middle of an ice storm? There was a road, Castiel."

"We knew of the road, but – Dean needed to take the harder trail. The one less traveled…" Castiel looked away from Sam's accusatory gaze, as the young hunter suddenly realized what was going on.

"_Needed_ to?" Sam looked from the angel to his brother, and swallowed. Jaw tight, "This was some kind of… test?"

"It was a… necessary journey."

"Necessary." Sam blew out an exasperated sigh and began pacing the room, his mind reeling, at a loss for words. Actually, he had plenty to say but the words raced to the front of his brain, pushing and shoving, demanding to get out, all of them, at once. He was just trying to get them in order.

"I know you find it difficult to comprehend," Castiel continued, "but he needed this, Sam. There are trials he will face later, things of far greater difficulty and –" Sam stopped and stared questioningly at him. "He needed to prove to himself –"

Sam spun on him, eyes snapping. "Dean doesn't need to _prove_ anything to anyone. Least of all to you and your... _heavenly brethren,_" he said, tone laced with all the derision he could inflict.

"Doesn't he?" Castiel asked, almost mockingly. Never taking his eyes off Sam, he walked around the bed and stood within a few feet, practically daring him to lash out. Sam didn't. "Have you yourself not lost faith in your brother, Sam?"

"Things have changed." Sam didn't want to speak to the issue of faith, but since Dean's return from Hell, yes, Dean was weaker. Still, the truth in the words hit home. Sam's eyes flicked to the floor. "He's changed."

"And you haven't?"

"That's not the point," Sam said growing more exasperated. "The power of the _gift,_ nearly killed him," he stubbornly added.

The angel sighed. "No, Sam. The illness in his lungs, the bloodloss and subsequent infection are what left his body unable to recover from the _gifts _depletive after effects.

"But if I hadn't gotten to him when I did…"

"Your intervention was anticipated but only in so much as a single horse would prove insufficient in bringing Dean and the family down from the mountain." Castiel's eyes held, steely, determined to make Sam understand his next point. "Don't you see, Sam? It's a testament to Dean's very strength that the _gift_ worked at all. The power could have only been wielded by someone special, someone like your brother. He did so admirably."

The truth of Castiel's words scorched him but try as he might, Sam couldn't fathom their reality. "I should've been with him," he maintained.

"Your love for your brother," Castiel softened momentarily, "is without question, but Dean needed to prove, if to no one other than himself, that he could save someone. He needed to believe in his abilities and strengths. He needed to know that he is not weak." Sam felt the next words cut him to his core. "Even if those who love and know him best do not."

"I…" Sam tried, but it was true. Dean _had_ lost confidence in what he knew, in what he was capable of. Anything to the contrary would be a lie and Sam knew the angel knew it, so he closed his eyes to the pain and whispered the smallest amount of truth. "He suffered in Hell, all for me. I don't want to see him hurt anymore."

"Dean is a capable man; he just needed to be shown that again." The angel added knowingly, "and perhaps you too."

It was true; Sam knew at his core, it was true. Dean had gone to Hell for him. Suffered an unimaginable pain for more years than Sam could wrap his mind around and he was back now. How could he _not_ have changed? How could Sam not want to protect him?

How could Castiel not see it? It was too much pressure for Dean, too much weight when he could barely lift himself from bed most mornings. How could he not realize that, even with some freaky ability to shoot fire balls out of his hands, Dean was still hurt, was still in danger, still lost?

How could Sam allow his brother to face Lilith like the angels wanted when he could barely face one lousy wendigo?

The angel's words softened. "Dean was and is all too willing to die a physical death, Sam, but if he were ever to suspect that you'd lost faith in him… that would forever destroy his soul."

Sam nodded. Castiel was right about that. Dean's mind was fragile enough as it was. If Sam were to dump all his doubts and decisions on his brother now... The sound of wings rustled through the room and Sam opened his eyes. The angel was gone.

Suddenly, the sound of Dean murmuring and thrashing violently about in the bed, stole his attention.

Setting aside his internal battle, he rushed back to his bedside, scooped up the sponge and bowl and sat gently on the bed, his hip making contact with his brother's heated body. "Easy, bro." He gently dabbed across his brow, drawing the porous sponge down his neck. Dean's struggles eased. "I'm right here. Not going anywhere."

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_Epilogue to follow…_

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **

There's an epilogue still to come, because while Castiel has made an attempt to explain, though his plans had seriously backfired, it seems there was a kind of duality in the test that Sam, or even I anticipated. I should manage to get the Epilogue up tomorrow night, 'cause yea, we need to get the boys back to normal, or whatever qualifies as normal for the Winchesters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Betas: Mad_Server **and** Ophium **(glomps you both)

**~ Epilogue ~**.

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The storm had been the worst in the area in ten years. Prior to the steady snowfall that dropped nearly three feet of snow on the area, the blizzard that had begun while they'd been at the mine, blew angrily making travel impossible for nearly three days.

On the second day of gale force winds, Dean's fever broke. The coughing, congestion and the presence of far too much fluid in the lungs lingered to the point that Dr. Bullock insisted that Dean remain abed. With the roads impassable and no way to leave, there didn't seem to be much to argue about. Well, not to Sam's way of thinking.

Dean, on the other hand, argued plenty, between bouts of coughing and winces of pain from the stitches and muscle aches, not to mention the ever present pounding headache. Those sealed the deal and Dean remained stationary, though the copious amounts of food, and even the small cheeseburger with onions made it all so much better.

The Coleman's, Kyle's family, also remained at the ranch. The break Greg Coleman's leg had sustained was deemed a simple fracture which once splinted, as soon as travel was an option, he would be taken to the nearest hospital and the leg operated on to reset it. For the time being, the ranch had all the necessary medical supplies to sustain the broken limb.

Bridges had been built during the Winchester's stay at the ranch. Despite the rough start with the ranch owners, Hank and Jenny were more than accommodating in offering them shelter for the duration of the storm and Dean's recovery. Beyond if necessary.

Well, 'beyond' hadn't been necessary. Sam had good news for his brother and he practically sprinted up the stairs to Dean's room, eager to share.

"Hey." Sam walked happily into Dean's room and placed his hands on his hips. The smile on his face slowly faded as he stared at the bed. "How's it… going?"

Once Dean was able to sit up for longer periods of time, he and Kyle had taken to a near daily routine of playing checkers, as much as four times a day. Still, a bored, bed-ridden Dean was never a good thing and the sight of his brother and Kyle scrambling to rearrange the bed covers as he entered was a prime indicator that some worrying wasn't totally unwarranted.

Dean and Kyle each held half dozen cards and in between them was a small stack of cards, face down. This just didn't look good. Eyes narrowed, Sam glanced from the top of Dean's head, face buried in his hand of cards to the bedside table and the untouched checker board. Pointing at the board game he asked, "What…?"

"Oh," Dean huffed, still suffering some residual congestion and coughed into his hand. "Just playing a harmless game of cards. You know, Sammy, can't live on checkers alone." He looked at Kyle. "Your turn."

"Really." Sam nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Dean and cards was not a combination Sam would ever believe as 'harmless'. "What game was that?"

Kyle's hand stilled. It hovered over the small pile next to the larger one on the bed and the look on his face as he looked at Dean spoke volumes.

"Hum?" Dean looked up innocently, though Sam knew that look. It was far from innocent. "Oh, um, it was that one, where you do that thing with those numbers –"

"Old Maid." Kyle supplied quickly.

"That's it!" Dean snapped his fingers. "Old Maid."

"Hm…" Sam made a pretense of thinking about it. "How's that played again?"

"Ah– you know, it's," Dean rolled a hand in the air, "where you find the old maid card and she – she cleans a full house –"

Kyle groaned; Sam's eyes widened. "Full house?" Sam lifted the covers; poker chips scattered and he dropped the blanket to the floor. "Dean." He tossed a look over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. "You can't teach someone's kid to play poker."

"Well," Dean pouted angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into the stack of pillows. "I'm bored, Sam. I swear, I'm going to go nuts."

Sam couldn't help himself. A large grin spread across his face. "Then get packed bro. Doc says you're cleared to go, so," he shrugged, "we're goin'."

The Winchesters didn't waste any time. Dean seemed to run out of steam at one point, though he'd never admit it. Sam worried over how to get him to just sit and let Sam take over. Only one thing came to mind, "Dean, if you start that wheezing again, Dr. Bullock's gonna hear and make us stay another week!"

Dean actually paled. He sat down immediately, no further argument offered.

Within minutes they were packed, the Impala loaded and the two were headed down the hall and toward the front door, Dean taking it slow.

At the veranda steps, Sam hesitated. No matter how much he wanted to reach out and assist his big brother in his slow descent of the stairs, Sam relented. Dean, one hand pressed to his still healing side, a slight limp in his gait from where the horse had tried to skewer him on a tree branch on the ride to the mine, moved with great caution toward the Impala.

Outside, the ranch hands milled around, watching them. Nathaniel had been first to approach as they walked slowly to where the Impala was parked. He clapped Sam on the back, shook Dean's hand and that seemed to signal a flood of admirers.

One after another the other ranch hands moved in to shake Dean's hand, Sam's too but he got the distinct impression that it was mainly because he was Dean's younger brother, related to the man who would no doubt be the most famous rider ever to have graced the Willow Creek ranch.

After Dean'd spent days in his sick room, for many of the hands, this was their first meeting of 'the rider' who'd taken Widow's Peak. Sam marveled at how Dean's face heated with embarrassment at the outpouring. Through much of it, he kept his eyes averted from those awe-filled gazes.

It seemed there wasn't a cowboy on the ranch who wasn't in awe of the older Winchester's riding prowess. Dean basked in their admiration and Sam had to fight to keep his own sense of pride at bay. Dean had indeed fought against insurmountable odds in what he'd done but as far as riding skill, well, just how do you explain to a bunch of strangers that much of his _riding_ _skill_ had more to do with an angel and less to do with natural ability?

Next to the car, the Coleman's stood bunched together; Cara gathered in her mother's arms, Greg leaning heavily on his crutches. Kyle, however, remained firmly in front, all of them wearing warm smiles against the chill in the air. The Culvers, Doctor Bullock and even Pete Hankins were there.

Dean seemed to be handling it all with his usual bravado, that is, until Kyle stepped away from his Dad and started moving toward him. It was one thing to receive gratitude from other men, but Dean had always flushed under the admiration of children. Sam grinned at his brother's embarrassment.

While Dean's steps had slowed Kyle's had increased and quick enough he closed the distance, flinging his arms around the elder Winchester, his little arms only barely reaching above Dean's waist. Dean's jaw clenched ever so subtly when the boy unwittingly pressed against his stitched side. Only Sam saw the change in his brother's stance.

After several seconds, Kyle stepped back. "Thank you."

Dean ruffled his hair. "You take care of your family, alright?" Kyle nodded, eyes full of trust and to Sam's utter dismay, hero worship. Well, Sam would suffer this one because truth be told, Dean could use it, and he more than deserved it. Maybe it was time Sam told him as much…

Then, Dean bent down gingerly to Kyle's ear and Sam heard him whisper, "And remember, it's not about the cards, it's about playing the player, get it?" he said with a wink.

Kyle grinned and nodded. "Got it."

Sam rolled his eyes.

The fire thing hadn't been all that hard to explain away to the boy. Tucked behind in an outcropping of rock, at that angle, he hadn't seen how the fire leapt out of Dean's hand all of its own accord. No, Sam had told him Dean'd had a matchbook in one pocket and lit it up, then flung it up at the creature. The boy had accepted it all too willingly.

Since Mr. and Mrs. Coleman had been unconscious most of their time in the cavern, the idea that it had been the workings of some deranged serial killer seemed more than reasonable enough for them. Kyle was content enough for all of them not to dispel that thought.

They shook hands with the family; Mrs. Coleman kissed each of the Winchesters on the cheek but added a heartfelt hug for Dean for saving her children. Blushing ear to ear, the boys issued a hasty goodbye to Hank and Jenny, the doctor handing Sam a bag full of meds for Dean to continue taking and a final list of orders to get his stitches checked out in ten more days.

When all well-wishes and good-bye's were done, the boys got into the Impala and pulled out of the ranch and onto the road. It wasn't until they were a mile away that they breathed a sigh of relief.

In the passenger side, Dean rummaged through the cassettes and pulled out AC/DC. He popped it in and when "Hell's Bells" began he relaxed into the door, the pillow Jenny Culver had provided cushioning his head nicely.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey Dean?"

"Hmm…?" After a beat, Dean looked over, cracking one eye open.

"I just… well..." The words, _I trust you_ and _I believe in you_, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them sound less forced, even in his head.

"Oh god," Dean graveled out, his voice still too weak from the lingering illness. "You're not going to go all… weepy on me are ya?"

"Nah man," Sam grinned. "Just… fireballs, dude?" he looked at his brother. "Pretty awesome." It was a conversational icebreaker as valid as any other, at least when you're a Winchester. "Don't you kind of wish... I don't know, that it'd stuck around?"

Sam stole a look towards his brother, trying to figure if Dean had caught the real question he was asking. Having a power to fight your enemy, even if it's a power you don't fully understand or control can be very handy. Sam certainly understood that.

Dean's left eyebrow raised on its own volition. "Did you missed the part where I almost _died_ because of the frigging thing?"

Sam sighed. Yeah, fat change of Dean ever seeing it that way. Supernatural was supernatural and nine times out of ten, it would bite you in the ass.

"Hell of a curve ball," Sam muttered to himself. He wasn't particularly sure if he was talking about his powers, Dean's temporary ones, Castiel and his damn tests or just the frigging weather.

When Dean didn't answer, Sam felt a moment of panic. He wondered if perhaps his words had been measured, weighed and found lacking.

"Yeah, curve ball," Dean said, his eyes sliding closed. He coughed into his fist and snuggled deeper into the pillow. "And horses man. Fucking killer horses."

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~*The end*~

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**Author's Notes:**

Thank you very much to Natty (Ophium). Happy Birthday kiddo and I'm so glad you've enjoyed this.


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